Hansel's Defiance
by Servant of Fire
Summary: AU Sequel to "The Major's Asylum". One dark and stormy night, a man by the alias of Hansel comes to Sherlock for help in freeing his sister from captivity in his father's ex-lover/female psychopath's "simulated fairytale", and to solve the murder of his mother by the same woman. When Sherlock and John go to Finland, they find this woman, and she tells them a secret darker than hers
1. Prologue

** Hansel's Defiance~**

** For the One Who set me free, from myself~**

** Prologue~**

The rain is falling in sheets outside, marching against the sleeping rooftops of London, like the spirits of fallen soldiers, and the wind pounds on the doors, and it howls, as if mourning for another Krystalnacht, and the fire is burning low in the hearth on Baker Street, and Sherlock Holmes is making his violin to sing, sadly to the rain, a dirge in passing, silver-green eyes staring into flames and nothing.

Ever faithful John Watson is sitting in his chair opposite him, pretending to update his blog , but he has nothing to write about now that he is no longer allowed to write about their adventures, as Sherlock is supposedly still dead and gone, and so the young army doctor is staring at his companion in wonderment. He is alive! He is sitting in his chair, brooding against the dimness of the room, his instrument weaving music in the air, like spider's spin idle webs, falling silent when his thoughts grow too deep, rising like flames do in a wind-woken fire every now and then.

And then against the marching of the rain there is a sound, of soft womanly footsteps, and heavy boots behind her...

"Come in, dear! Oh, can I make you some tea? Dreadful weather out there!" Mrs. Hudson's birdsong voice twittered into the room.

"You must have a fascinating problem, and a fatal one, to come to a dead man for it..." Sherlock said, and his voice was low like voices speaking out of the roots of the mountains, a voice like the very voice of the earth ,if time could speak its mind, or Abel's blood be understood ,by the ears of modern man.

The man looks up, eyes wide like a frightened owl, and a stroke of lighting tears the sky, like a blade through the canvas, and washes the room in white light, and the Detective smiles grimly, and motions with his hand, to the client's chair that has been seated before him already, as if he were expecting his guest...

The man, more so a boy, around 23 years old, sits down, and bows over his knees, staring in wonder at the man to whom he has come for help.

"This is my assistant, my doctor, and my dearest friend , John Watson. Anything you need to say, will be said in his presence with absolute assurance of its confidence." says the Detective, and the young man eyes John curiously. Sensing the boy's fear (not very many who encountered Sherlock before his Lazarus experience were actually _calm_ in his presence) John smiles as kindly as he can.

"Hello." John musters, not sure what else to say.

"Now it appears our only question is to who you are..."says Sherlock, glancing the boy over only once. Once is all that it will take. John holds his breath, feeling sorry for the boy, but at the same time very eager to see his friend perform his magic once again.

"You're not yet 24 years old, were born into a wealthy Danish family, but you weren't raised by them...Hmm...no... you...and your sister, (yes the way you pressed your pants this morning suggests that you have a womanly influence, but not a woman's hand at work in your life)...you and your sister were raised together,...away from your family...This domestic exchange...was not in your best interests...no...your mother and father basically worshipped you. It was vengeance of the darkest kind, make the children pay for the sins of your...father...A jaded lover...a female captor...You were abducted at the age of 6, your sister age of 5, from your home in Denmark. You were taken to a remote location in the forests of Finland...that I can see from the specific conifer tree sap stains on your left trouser knee, a species indigenous to that area .You only recently escaped, haven't entirely altered your appearance or habits yet, your clothes are old, you still nervously search for every door way, sit in a stance like game animals do when they know their hunter is upon them...You 're on the run...yet you need to return ,because you promised your sister you would return for her. You learned of my recent involvement in the end of the Great Accomplice who had taken up with Loki's Gauntlet in Denmark, and you thought your safest gamble was to come to me...I am honored,...Hansel..."

John's jaw dropped, and he felt a chill pass over him as if there was a presence of haunting in this room. Hansel had gone white ,and his skin wrinkled like paper at the edges of his face...

"How...how can you know so much about me...I haven't yet said a word...?"

Sherlock chuckles, and the fire flickers about him.

"Know?! I didn't know anything about you at all, until you entered my living room! I merely observed you!..."

Mrs. Hudson reentered the room then, passing around tea cups on a silver tray that gleamed like star light in the dim room.

Sherlock took his tea with a nod of thanks. John nearly spilled his. Hansel did spill his ,just a bit, on his knee, and winced.

Taking a sip, Sherlock nodded and said, "So now that I know who you are, and you obviously know who I am,...and have been introduced to Doctor Watson, why don't you tell me the details I can't observe? As in your birth name? Hansel is an alias, one you don't like, but yet you go by because you know no different. Why don't you tell me why I can read your alias name ,that you attempted to rub out with a pen, on your recent hospitalization bracelet? Why don't you tell me more about your sister...and why you left her, and why your father's lover has held you hostage for the last 17 years in a hut made of hard candy and preserved ginger bread in the deep forest of Finland? I'm sure it's a fascinating story...wouldn't you say so ,John?"

John can't say anything, only stammers a soft, "Ahh-ummm-uhuh..." and nods, and Hansel shakes his head.

"Yes...I knew I made the right choice coming to you, Mr. Holmes...To answer your first question, my name is Peter Yeats. I am 23 years old, and I was raised in captivity by a woman whose identity is unclear to me, because my father loved her lavishly, spent half his fortune on her, and then broke off their engagement to marry for more money, when his company went bankrupt, and a wealthy baroness offered him an alternative lifestyle. That wealthy baroness was my mother...and she is dead. I'd say murdered, I saw it happen, but I was 6 years old, and couldn't prove it. Then we were taken..."

Sherlock clutches at his tea cup, as if he were watching a gripping movie.

"Go ahead, Mr. Yeats...I'm all ears..."


	2. Chapter 1: Gretel's Dreams

**Chapter One: Gretel's Dreams~**

"I have come to you , Mr. Holmes, out of the last death stroke of desperation."

The room has grown colder, as the fire dies lower, and glowers as red as rose-stained glass about them, like a cathedral for the night, encompassing them in the wings of muted angels, in stand-by for the drama that holds their lives on the end of a teaspoon.

Sherlock nods, as if he already understands, though he hasn't been told a single thing yet. John wonders at his friend, can almost feel his blood begin to run along with his own, as if the breath of God has animated him for the very first time. A new hunt, the thrill already present, his veins billowing as if to stir the furnace of his heart.

"So,...your mistress has been compelled to kill one of you. It was your sister that she chose, and what she plans for her was so slow and horrific a death, you dared to defy her?"

Hansel's jaw drops. Not only can Sherlock see straight through him, he can also empathize fully with him, being subjected himself to every form of cruelty that exists, and one dark day it caused him to Fall to his death in John's stead.

"You are right...She...is very skilled in poisoning. Her favorite method is by an apple, covered in some sort of diluted toxic chemical lacquer that burns a dark green, and is odorless and tasteless."

"John and I have observed such an apple in our latest engagement, and yet we weren't able to investigate it at that time." Sherlock said, brows knitting as if he were trying to piece together a bigger puzzle than the one he was presented.

"But Mr. York ate a bit of that apple, and he was fine." John said, stunned, wondering if Mr. York(the British consul in Copenhagen, that they met on their last case) maybe hadn't been fine, and was now...

"That's because the poison is only fatal if the apple is baked, something about heat release..." Hansel added, "Sometimes she will give her victims a taste of the poison, to give them seriously frightening hallucinogenic dreams. My mistress...she...sees herself as some sort of fairy tale witch...She copies her murders, and her threats and torments...after the methods used by characters out of pretty much every fable you can recall from your boyhood days. There will be a pretty vast list of those that you don't know either, I am sure...But you will learn them ,I'm afraid, if you encounter her; she will insist on schooling you in her vast Literary knowledge. She is a scholar of murder; basically worships the Art."

Sherlock's attention was pricked anew. For once he was being set up against a criminal that had the true heart of a villain. Any time he could have villain to destroy, it sent him into a state of euphoria that lasted for weeks afterwards. John held his breath, feeling butterflies in his stomach, glad to see Sherlock's happiness, but also nervous to be going back into danger, because whenever there was danger, Sherlock was harmed, and usually it was because he was trying to protect John from something the ordinary man could "see but not observe".

"Your sister...has become the victim of one of these passionate pantomimes, I take it?" Sherlock said, smiling almost delightedly.

"My sister , of both of us,all our lives has borne the brunt of the Mistress' hate, because she favors our mother more. Her alias is Gretel, but her real name is Margaret Yeats, Margaret after my mother. The Mistress always gave her a lot of chores in the making of her toxins, and the reenacting of these children's stories in a bloodthirsty way. Once when were were about the age of a child year 5,she had her spin a poisoned fabric whilst I watched, woven with poisoned lacquer ,like she uses on apples, but this has a golden sheen to it. She called it "Rumpelstiltskin's Night" and she wrapped me in it tightly, and I nearly died of hallucinogenic induced terror, and epileptic seizures. It was that day that I swore to my sister I would defy the Mistress and get us away...And as of a month ago, when my sister's life was laid on the scales, I ,belatedly, made good of my promise..."

"What ...happened to her?" asked John, clearing his throat.

Hansel swallowed..."The Mistress was ...extremely angry...because Maggie had stolen her fancy smartphone( I don't really know where the woman is able to come by all these things, we live probably a good 50 miles from anywhere with people) and was trying to surf the web to find our father...thinking she could email him our whereabouts. It was a radical attempt at our redemption, and in vain. The Mistress had been working on a certain mix of poisons...somehow diluting hallucinogens into anesthetics to create what she called the "Dreamcatcher" a poison that traps the victim in an intense series of frightening hallucinations, so paralysing, the body presents all the symptoms of a coma."

"Neat!" Sherlock cried. Hansel looked stunned.

"He...means...that it's...terrible for your sister!, and we will absolutely try to help you in any way we can." John back-pedalled ,giving Sherlock his classic "bit not good" look.

"We won't TRY to help you, Mr. Yeats, we most definitely WILL help you! We leave on the first flight for Finland in the morning." Sherlock cried.

"Oi, yeah...alright...Let me just go tell Sholto then..."John said, getting to his feet.

Anytime Sherlock said they were taking a case promptly in the morning, it usually meant they told Sholto, who currently resided in a renovated version of 221 C, living in the flat now as their self-appointed body guard, at some ungodly hour of the night. John prayed to the merciful God that he wasn't beaten to a pulp by the man that was supposed to be protecting him, for accidentally startling him awake. He prayed also that Sherlock wouldn't try too terribly hard to be a hospitable guest to their already socially traumatized client. As he descended the stairs, he heard the young man say something along these lines:

"Would you like some leftovers?...We have pudding you may help yourself to; it's in the fridge, top shelf, next to Sister Laurel's pickled thumbs..."


	3. Chapter 2: Straight On Till Morning

**Chapter 2: Straight On Till Morning~**

John held his breath. 221 C was lit with a dim candle, and the Major had fallen asleep with a bottle of brandy under his arm.

Right, so he had expected an evening at home. Unless Baker Street uprooted at the foundation, and set sail with Noah, then how could these torrents send them out the door again, or how would he have need to awaken? John felt almost sorry to be waking the Major now.

"Attention, sir." John cried, standing at a clipped attention, and saluting. Best be in a soldier's form when his commanding officer did wake.

The Major snorted and sat up, and the brandy spilled all over the floor of the cruddy old room.

"Eyhuh what?...Watson...what are you doing here, son? Go... back to sleep."

"There's to be a case, Sir!" John said, voice high, never dropping his salute.

"A...case? John...God is out doing Himself with the downpour outside...Certainly the London low-life are too busy keeping afloat to need the assistance of Sherlock Holmes? Tell the boy to go to bed himself...or to play more Mozart...that stuff sets me right off..."

"Not London low life sir. We're off to Finland in the morning. Thought it would be best to inform you,...well, as soon as I'd heard it myself, sir."

The room grew quiet. John braced himself for whatever came next. The Major blinked, stern face twitching ever so slightly with his consternation...

"How in God's name can he arrange for a flight to Finland, at 3 am ,when the Deluge is tearing the wall paper off our walls, just from the pressure of the outward drenching?"

"Well, I'd say having an omnipresent British government incarnate for a big brother might help? Either way we're headed to Finland...terribly sorry to wake you,sir."

"At ease,Watson, and don't apologize. Your protection is my duty. I shall be ready within the next 2 minutes."

"But...sir,we leave in the morning?"

" Then straight on till morning, I will watch. For the love of God and Sherlock Holmes!" And with that the Major bounded out of his bed, and went to the little wardrobe he and the boys had set up to hold his uniforms.

With a fond smile, and shaking his head, John turned to go.

"And for the love of John Watson..." the Major was muttering, though one soldier never says that to the face of the other, when they are in their form. John laughed, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p>" You still haven't said why you were hospitalized?"Sherlock's voice practically purred into the room, startling both client and Doctor Watson. Sometimes his friend could almost be terrifying ,one never knowing the full content of his mind. John held his breath, when he could see Sherlock. He was standing by the fire now, and there was a look of concern on his face that John remembered being the exact expression that painted it in the Dark Days that had lead up to his Fall...when Moriarty still steered their life like a crazy train, bound to crash and burn. He had been dressed more for bed, they were after all being shut in by a torrential downpour tonight. But now he was fully dressed, long dark coat, scarf and gloves and all, as if he were ready to spring out the door at that very moment. John conceded to the fact that he should go get ready too, (it was probably a bit not good for one to go traipsing about the forests of Finland in their shower robe and underwear, he had forgotten how he was dressed until right this moment, and made self-consciously sure that his robe was tied more tightly in the presence of their guest).<p>

"I didn't say ,sir, because I didn't know why. My escape from Finland was difficult; I smuggled myself on board a cattle delivery truck. When I leaped out of it later,to smuggle aboard a fishing boat setting course round trip for the English Channel, I hit my head on the landing. I was helped by a man who somehow knew my alias; without asking what I went by,he hospitalized me under the name of Hansel. It troubled me greatly; I never spoke to him directly, I only heard him say he'd found me on the road, and that jumping out of trucks is a bit stupid...But he knew my name, spoke to me,...as if he knew me personally...And then I thought I may have dreamed it all..."

"Yes, but obviously you didn't, or you would not have a plastic bracelet attached to your wrist. I've taken your case, and if I'm to solve it, I will need all the details, to form the result. So Mr. Yeats...this will be the last time you withhold information from me, no matter how troubling, am I understood?"

"You are indeed ,sir."

Sherlock smiled. Usually people were offended by his commands and his general lack of social know-how. And then his jaw set , puzzled.

"To be helped seemingly at random, by a wandering Good Samaritan? It is as my old grandfather used to say, "Coincidence is not a kosher word". There is no such thing as coincidence in the Universe...everything happens for a reason, everything is part of a code, as if our lives were nothing more than some enormous puzzle, some elusive calculation. If you observe the variables...the details...you can solve the mystery of it all... No, it wasn't at random at all, the man sought you out. You have physical evidence ,so this was no dream man,no hallucination, or man from a spiritual experience world, none like my Teacher..."

"Your Teacher?" Yeats asked.

John smiled, as he recalled the story silently to himself. When Sherlock had jumped from St. Bart's roof top, he had fallen on the sidewalk, and he truthfully died, for 34 hours, after an hours worth of failed resuscitation. Miraculously he had awakened in the mortuary,and when Molly Hooper had come to do his autopsy, she had found him sleeping. This extreme case of "Lazarus syndrome" (Lazarus Syndrome= when a clinically dead person is awakened after attempts at resuscitation have been stopped) had earned the mission to disband Moriarty's network the name "Operation Lazarus", the story of which was their last case, one that John had been affectionately referring to as "The Major's Asylum". During the 34 hours Sherlock was dead, he had gone to the mind palace of a mysterious man, that he and John had been referring to as "the Teacher" because of the wisdom he shared whenever Sherlock re-accessed this mind palace. One that they believed may even be God Himself...

Sherlock waved his hand, "I met him whilst I was dead. You were not dead, you were alive, you couldn't have met a man from a death-experience if you were alive! He knew you...how could he have known you?You've had no contact with the world outside your Mistress' synthesis fairytale for 17 years, and you were little children when you were taken from your parents. Had it been your father, whatever his reasons for appearing to you in such a vague manner, or had it been a relative or even a colleague of his, they would have called you by your given name. He used your alias, the one your mistress gave you, hospitalized you under it. Conclusion, he is a colleague of your mistress, and he's on to you, so he's on to us. He let you live, because he wanted your plan to work. Either he hates her...or wanted to get to me...or maybe a little bit of both. So we destroy her,of course, but our real target is him."

"When you were dead?..." Yeats repeated, the entire conclusion the Detective had just made passing over his head, to think he may be talking to a man that has resurrected.

Sherlock wheeled about on his heel, clapping his hands together, and eyed John curiously,

"John, I don't think Mrs. Hudson's alarming pink faux fur slippers will be adequate footwear for the forest floor of Finland, especially this time of year. What about those boots you bought shortly after we returned from Denmark?"

John looked down at his feet. He was wearing Mrs. Hudson's slippers, why he didn't know. He was groggy, and wanted to curl up next to the fire and sleep for the next 10 days. But the light in Sherlock's eyes was screaming at him to wake up, seize the day, to be alert straight on till morning. He nodded, twisting his lips in affectionate irritation.

"Alright ,you git, thanks for pointing that out, but they are rather warm, and I thought they were my red ones in the dark! I will go and change, but I swear, there better be a good breakfast on this plane for getting us up this early!"

"You never went to bed!"

"Shut up!" John called over his shoulder, only to realize Sherlock had followed him to the door of his room.

"Oi! You are a complete and total git, what?" John gasped, startled.

Sherlock texted Mycroft, and showed John the message.

" Coffee and doughnuts would be greatly appreciated, the Captain's orders for insisting he get up so early,never mind he never went to bed."

A message came back, " Breakfast provided, see you in 2 hours, brother mine."

Sherlock smiled,as if trying to make peace, never mind they hadn't been fighting.

John laughed..."Ah yeah...right...on the road again."he said good-naturedly.

"Mycroft's excellent when it comes to buying pastries...(especially when they're for himself...). Breakfast will make up for your lack of sleep, and it's a long flight to Finland."

John smiled, and Sherlock reached and clutched his shoulders, with an intense look in his eyes, and a childlike grin on his face.

"Ah it's good to be back, John! It's Christmas!" he laughed, and bounded for his own room.

John watched him go...It was very good indeed to have him back from the dead.


	4. Chapter 3: Till Dark Sky Day

**Chapter 3: Till Dark Sky Day~**

It _seemed _like a long flight ,regardless of technicalities, so eager was Sherlock to have the case started.

They sat in one of Mycroft's private jets, and the Holmes brothers were discussing how Sherlock believed this to be a threat of national security.

"It bears the marks of Loki's Gauntlet, as well as Moriarty's style." he was saying, John heard, as he began to doze, snoring and accidentally sucking a page of the morning newspaper into his nostrils.

"Breathing deeply of the times are we, Watson?" asked Sholto, reaching up and pealing the paper off John's twitching mouth and nose.

"Not intentionally ,no. Stinking rubbish is all the media is anymore. It's what sent Sherlock to an early Grave, you know."

The Major grunted his agreement, and the two fell silent, watching the Holmes brothers' conversation, spell bound. Their young client had fallen asleep, the static of the head phone's to the iPod Sherlock lended him audible to them, even from this many seats away. The morning sky was darkened ,the sun coming up behind thick clouds ,as if foreboding, and the two brothers had seated themselves closer to the cockpit window, whilst the Major and John enjoyed their breakfast. But breakfast was eaten now, and food often refreshes the mind to thought. Thought of another adventure's beginning. Thought about the course their lives had taken, all their paths intersecting here and today, when by rights none of them should be alive to see this dark skied morning.

"Remarkable, aren't they?" asked the Major breaking the silence.

John felt his breath catch, watching them, Sherlock in particular.

The morning sun was shining off of his dark hair, and despite his always-palor, he looked healthy, a glint of renewed confidence in his silver green eyes. He was smiling at his brother, always a good sign, as the two didn't always get along. It had come out recently though,that actually they adored each other, and were glad to be working together again.

He was young, and today there was youthfulness that trouble had long concealed behind the grey mist it hangs about an individual. He was healthy. And alive.

Alive.

John felt his chest aching,because it was absolutely impossible. Medical phenomenon. He'd been dead for 34 hours...yet there he sat, he and his brother discussing this case, John not hearing a word of what was being said, lost in so much thought...

"How...did it happen?" Sholto's voice said into the swirl of John's thoughts.

"What?" John asked, feeling as if he were underwater. This very moment, a dream, surreal, impossible,...yet happening.

"How on earth did he awaken?" Sholto wondered aloud, a dark smile on his stern face. "Not that I'm complaining..."

John's breath caught again, and continued to feel like breathing through one of the coffee straws on his breakfast tray, trying to stay awake under the water...

"I don't...know...Must have been a miracle."

Sholto nodded, and Sherlock stood up ,grabbing at his hair.

"Of course! Of course, my first conversation with Moran- he talked about the Blood Trade, the business of murder! This woman, this mistress, a spurned lover...and this Not-So-Good Samaritan...They must be leaders in another Network...An artistic guild, the art being specifically murder."

Mycroft smiled, " I'm glad you are alive,brother mine. You have a much more active imagination than I do, it would have been dreadfully tedious to come to that conclusion on my own."

"All the evidence makes it evidently the truth!" Sherlock cries, overjoyed, and almost breathless. "We could be on the trail of a whole Pandora's box of crime-spree!"

"Well, now that we've got the scent ,Sherlock, I say we have breakfast...I hope the others didn't eat it all."

"Oh come, Mycroft. You're practically the Queen of England. If you want more breakfast you can get more."

John's high pitched giggling from across the plane brought Sherlock's attention back to him.

Mycroft made some snarky remark, to which Sherlock replied again snarkily, and John was taken down again by another wave of emotions ,and thoughts, and hopes, and vague fears, that it startled him like being plucked from the water by a Viking's oar, when Sherlock sat down next to him, unwrapping one of the cherry filled doughnuts from a wax paper sleeve.

Alive, the morning sun in his eyes, the dawn more like twilight in the wake of this dark day. Alive, breathing, actually for once about to eat something on a case. John's jaw dropped.

Sherlock looked at him side long: "I have plenty of time to digest this before I work out any more problems... We've only barely begun this flight! "he said, almost indignantly, taking a bite of the doughnut.

John laughed, "I've nothing against your eating a proper breakfast! There are bananas too, if you want..."

"Mmm...this will be alright."

John sighed. At least he was eating something. Was alive to be eating...

John must have had an odd look on his face, because Sherlock's brows twisted. Major sensed that maybe the two of them might be about to talk about something they'd rather talk about alone, and so he went to sit next to Mycroft, wanting to be more fully informed about the "nature of their mission".

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked,after a long silent moment.

"Haven't had much sleep..."John muttered ,looking out the window.

Sherlock laid a hand on his knee, and John turned to look at him slowly,noticing the searching expression in his eyes.

You can't hide from your best mate, when your best mate happens to be the world's only consulting detective. John sighed.

"Blood Trade, huh? So it's a real thing, and they're like Moriarty...which puts you in danger, doesn't it?"

"This won't be the same as last time. Is that why you're worried, John?"

John swallowed a lump that felt like trying to swallow Sherlock's grave stone...

"Sherlock..."John took his friend's hand firmly in his own. How to make him understand this.

"You _died_ last time...For...me..."

Silence. Sherlock held his breath.

"How am I supposed to ...take that...? How do I process that? You were _dead._ A corpse in a morgue. A dead body ,covered in blood, cold and in an ugly black bag. Dead and gone. I took your pulse, or lack thereof...I cried for hours ,and my tears mixed up your blood like paint. I ...buried you. How was I to know the box was empty when it went in the hole? I don't know how you woke up, but I don't see it happening more than once..."

"It _won't _be like last time..."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock smiled. "Because last time I had a reason to die. This time I have a reason to live..."

"What's that?"

Sherlock was suddenly very grave.

"You."


	5. Chapter 4: The Queen of the Grave

**Chapter 3: The Queen of the Grave~**

Exactly 2 hours and 46 minutes later, John woke up, his head laying against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Is the flight already over?" John asked, wishing it had _actually _been a long flight, and not just impatient Sherlock saying so , so that he could sleep for longer.

"We're landing in Helsinki first, and we plan to find accommodations here, and drive north." Sherlock answered,having been staring out the window, deep in thought.

John was yawning, trying to wake himself,when he felt Sherlock pulling him into more of a sitting position, and was about to swear at him for being so impatient, when he felt him pulling a warm new coat over his shoulders.

"We're in Scandinavia, in the early of December. It will be cold." he said, voice low, a concerned expression furrowing his brows.

"I don't remember bringing this?" John asked, trying to recall the early hours before.

"No... I packed some extra things..."

"Why?"

John could sense there was more to this case than helping the boy, or than Sherlock was telling him. He looked out the window again at the settle of the snowfall off the Cathedral that stood high above Helsinki like the patron saint of welcome.

"Here..." Sherlock whispered, and pulled some gloves out of his own coat, and started putting them on John's hands. John clasped Sherlock's hands firmly, causing him to look up.

"You ok?" he asked, suddenly concerned. Sherlock licked his lips, and looked back at John, deadly serious as only he can be.

"You trust me, right?"

"Of course I do...what's wrong?"

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, as if he were indicating they should keep their voices low, so as not to upset the boy, who was awake now and chatting with the Major. Then he turned to John, smiling bravely.

"I've been discussing this case/mission with Mycroft...and there is a possibility that we may spend the entire winter in Finland..."

John set his jaw. They would miss Christmas then, or have to have it here amongst themselves, but he wasn't really close to his family, Sherlock actually being more family to him than his drunkard and abusive parents and sister. If he'd had a girlfriend, the romance would be over as soon as he decided to take off with Sherlock on some random flight to Scandinavia at 5 in the morning, so he was glad that his romantic life was pretty much as non-existant as his strange detective friend himself, at the moment. The only people they may want to have spent Christmas with would have been Greg ,Molly and Mrs Hudson, but they'd be sure to send them presents. Sherlock didn't really factor the holidays into his plans anyway, so why did the idea of spending the entire winter in Finland seem to be upsetting him so badly?

"It's ok, mate, we can send Greg and the girls a soveneir..."John said, fishing. Sherlock swallowed.

"But missing Christmas, and spending your birthday abroad is the last thing on the radar screen for you, isn't it?"

"John, this mysterious woman psychopath that has been holding our client hostage for years...there were rumors of her amongst Moriarty's Network. I don't do rumors, you know, I only investigate evidence, only come up with tangible results. Because she was spoken of as a myth, I believed her to be one. They called her "the Queen of the Grave". Said she was suffering under a new realm of insanity, said she would be the one to truly bring chaos, and make Jim Moriarty look like a snot nosed little flower girl. But now I do have tangible evidence of her, a client. Which, if the stories are true, we are about to unveil a whole new chapter of the criminal world. Which is exhilarating, but also..." Sherlock swallowed, his voice growing low...

"The prospect of collateral damage is here. I will do all I can to ensure the survival of the innocent lives in our charge. But we've failed before...Soo Lin Yao, for example. Sholto's boys... We are not strangers to collateral damage, John. Now I make a point of "not caring" about my clients, because I know that my emotional attachment to them isn't going to help them. It doesn't mean ,however, that I have no regard for their lives...This could be no less than heartbreaking. And if it is...do you still want to help me?"

John smiled, amazed once more by his friend.

"Just so you know, you are the most _human _human being that I have ever known...What you've just said, is extra proof...

Of _course _I want to help you ,Sherlock. Whether we spend the winter in Helsinki, or Hell itself...as long as we're together, it's all fine by me."

Sherlock smiled, but still had a dark expression on his face.

"You think we might not reach the girl in time?" John asked, understanding.

" I think the only reason a woman with a reputation such as this would _let_ Yeats escape, was that...she might already be dead."

John felt like he'd been kicked in the chest by a recoiling gun.

"Oh...God..."

Sherlock grit his teeth.

"I don't know what we're walking into. But Moriarty told me once, that every fairytale has to have a good old fashioned villain. What we have here is Sleeping Beauty, I am afraid. And our mission is to stop as many witches as we can, before several other sons and daughters fall forever asleep..."

John nodded, and stood up, pulling Sherlock to his feet, just as the pilot was lowering the ramp to let them off.

" Good thing fairy tales aren't real, right?" John smiled, and Sherlock laughed,spirits lifted. John was his light in a storybook darkness...

* * *

><p>A while later they were walking down the sidewalk, on the way to the Hotel Haven, in the heart of the city, within walking distance of the Presidential Palace.<p>

"Seems a bit expensive. Why'd we choose this one? Not that I'm complaining, but I'd have been content with the Carlton?" asked the Major.

Mycroft was walking at a clipped pace, and directly beside him was Sherlock. The Major had fallen behind, carefully surveying the alleys they passed,for any sign of threat. John and Yeats were in the middle, and the boy looked in wonder at all the massive buildings about him, it becoming ever clearer, the City, and exposure to other people, was a new experience for him.

"The Haven is strategically the best place for us to be, because it is so central to the rest of the City ,and because it is so near this cities government offices." Mycroft answered, wasting no time.

"He means , if we're up against what we think we're up against, than this would be the best place for our opponent to stage an act of terrorism." Sherlock added.

"So...you're staying with us, Mycroft?" John asked, suddenly wondering how exactly serious this situation was. They hadn't really been in contact with Mycroft much since Denmark, and so John's understanding of the last 3 months since their return was still a bit hazy.

"Need I remind you the events that surrounded our last excursion in one another's company, Doctor Watson? If Sherlock is right(which he is very rarely not) then the same opponents from our last game ,are playing us again, with different cards this time. I would be a fool not to take any plan, however ridiculous it may seem, to disband the Secret Services of our nation, and try to overthrow the UK in some anarchist martial law,seriously. Tea with the Queen, and calls to make sure the Prime Minister's dog isn't stolen can wait. This is my occupation at its prime level, and I intend to perform my duty to the best of my ability."

"Which is no small ability. He is ,as I have said, basically the Queen of England, he is merely lacking a crown." said Sherlock ,turning on his heel, and walking backwards for a moment to face his friends.

Mycroft was about to make a clever retort to his little brother's sassy comment, when suddenly Yeats gasped, pointing across the street:

"That's the man, Sherlock!" and drew close to the detective.

Sherlock immediately understood, " You mean...the man who hospitalized you under your alias?"

"Yes!"

The look on Sherlock's face basically told John all that he needed to know.

"I know him." Sherlock whispered.

"What?" asked John, exasperated all of a sudden.

"From your Hiatus, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, always able to track with Sherlock fastest, sometimes being the one to lead him along.

"Yes, and I had hoped never to see him again..." Sherlock muttered. Then he stopped short and said loudly enough for even a few other people on the street to over hear:

"Vatican cameos."

Major immediately jumped to action.

" Doctor...he needs medical attention!" the Major said, and Sherlock pretended to pass out, Mycroft catching him in his arms, feigning horror.

"What are we doing?" Yeats gasped, nearly panicking.

"Creating a diversion." John whispered back, immediately going into doctor mode.

"Ok, Sherlock ,tell me...where does it hurt?"John asked, double speaking,"What do you see when I hold up these many fingers to you?"

(Which was Holmes and Watson double speak for , "Status of our situation?")

Sherlock's eyes swept the other side of the street. Making rapid deductions of their opponent, and the status of the threat. He hissed loudly, as if in great pain, and clutched Mycroft's arm, to guide his gaze where he was looking: "Oh my God, John, it feels like my chest is exploding! Like I've been hit by an exploding car!"

(Which was Holmes and Watson double speak for, "Possible bombed car threat".)

"My God..."Mycroft moaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Now people were turning to look.

"What happened to him?" asked a girl, with an Iranian accent.

"He's been knifed...I think there's a killer on the loose!" John gasped, and the Major jumped to action.

"A violent crime, a violent crime has taken place...everyone,...stay calm ...and listen to me carefully,I need you to clear the street until the authorities arrive..." he barked, and people obeyed him, because he was clearly military, who's military didn't matter at the moment ,so long as he saved their lives, from whatever it was they were in need of saving from.

Mycroft was immediately dialing the Helsinki police department, and calling his own bomb tech that he'd had sent to the British consulate.

People were pouring off the street.

"Is he going to be alright, Doctor?" asked Mycroft, (which was Holmes and Watson double speak for, 'Now's time for us to beat it'.)

"We need to take him to a Hospital!"John agreed, and they began to clear away, when Sherlock gasped, dropping the act:

"Get down!" and pulled Mycroft and John down with him, pressing their faces into the snow-covered sidewalk, covering their heads with his arms, and bowing over them himself.

There was a sudden heat, and fire shot straight up into the air, and fire trucks were shrieking to a stop on the other side of the street ,avoiding worsening the situation with further explosions.

Slowly Sherlock began to sit up, and John spat out snow,blinking rapidly to see what had happened. Where was the Major, and Yeats? Were Sherlock and Mycroft ok? Curse Sherlock, he'd put himself in danger again, to protect him! He rolled over suddenly angry,and scared, but Sherlock was kneeling in the snow, panting , staring into the distance.

"That happened more quickly than I anticipated." Mycroft admitted, sitting slowly up, giving his little brother an odd look for risking himself again.

"He got away." Sherlock panted.

"Who was that?"John asked, and Sherlock gave him a nervous look.

"Remember when I told you I was a guest of Loki's Gauntlet some time ago? That was my host."


	6. Chapter 5: Shall Reign in Terror

** Chapter 4: "Shall Reign in Terror"~**

"Your _host?" _John gasped, suddenly ready to chase after the man, on hands and knees if he had to, and beat him to a pulp.

Mycroft swallowed, " The details are dark on that mission, Sherlock...What did you not tell us?"

"I can only give you a result when I have pieced together evidence. I was able to piece together no significant evidence for this man, it was part of the torment of the evening, I was given a sample of some sort of drug, such as the ones Yeats describes being used on himself and his sister. Were it not for the burn scars on my wrists, and the fact that I did manage to recover a stolen key and take it to Stockholm, I would have thought the whole affair no more than a Baskervillian fabrication..."

There was silence for a long moment, but then Sherlock said: "I may have had nothing to tell you then, but I have gathered plenty of information to tell you now."

The others listened up. John was vaguely aware of Yeats and the Major rejoining them, the boy dizzy and leaning on the Major, confused, and almost sick nervous.

"At first glance, he is appearing to wear a long, dark fabriced coat like mine, except with lace trimmings. But if one is to examine it more closely, they are actually two great lace fans, like a ladies personal fan, made into the shape of two golden gilded wings, able to be opened and closed much like wings or fans, and resemble very much a ballerina's costume. Beneath that , if you were paying attention, he is wearing a leotard like a male ballerina would wear, except it is made of a light grade of chain mail, also gilded with around 3 carat gold. The leggings are, again like one would wear for a ballet, save they are made of some higher grade spandex material, almost like what field agents might wear. He has an officer's sword affixed to his belt, and he is wearing slippers, made of snake skin. He wore dark eye liner too, and lipstick of the darkest shade only a brazen woman would be seen in public with, and he was even wearing an alarming shade of rouge. Hair was chin length, and braided off to the side, and clipped back with a pin that was obviously self designed, and was in the shape of Thor's hammer. Now, if I _didn't _ recognize his face from a previous encounter , I would be able to link him back to Loki's Gauntlet with several pieces of this information, one being the hair accessory, another being that the leaders of Loki's Gauntlet are mostly comprised of stage performers, such as a dancer often is. Why the sword? He is an officer of the Gauntlet, which is an occultic order, practicing varying forms of the ancient Norse religion, as well as Wicca, and so they furnished him with a hand-me-down, no doubt belonging to someone in their company's military grandfather. He did not appear in this attire to me at their "business meeting" and I rather doubt that young Mr. Yeats would have forgotten it, had he appeared to him in this guise, either. So, I can conclude, that he was dressed for a performance this second time we've seen him, because he intended to give a stunning performance, and murder being his forte, that was how I was able to piece together the bombing we just diverted from being a civic disaster. His performance thus ruined, he has withdrawn for ,no doubt, a reschedule. And it may be a while, yet not a long while; now that we have seen the Blood Eagle, now that we recognize him in his full regalia, he will not stop trying to make a dramatic entrance into this affair. Why would he want to enter this scene at all? Obviously the mistress has secrets he doesn't want us to know. So ,it isn't so much that he hates her, or that he's trying to get to me, as it is a bit of both perhaps: she is his bargaining chip."

"Yes...but for what bargain?" wondered Mycroft.

"That ,it appears, is the unknown we are solving for."

"Blood Eagle?"John asked.

Sherlock nodded gravely, "Every high ranking member of the Gauntlet has a "stage name", if you will. His name is "Blood Eagle" because the peak performance he is studying for , is to perform the "blood eagle" (an ancient Viking torment practice. I shall spare you the details...) on a victim of his choice. He had elected to practice on me, but I managed to escape before he could, locating my missing key ,in the Gauntlet Keep, during their meeting."

John felt his breath turn to liquid lead in his airways. Knowing Sherlock was alive the time he thought he was not, knowing he had been tortured, and knowing it vaguely, was one thing. To hear fragments of the account, however,...John knew that sooner or later he and Sherlock were going to have that conversation...and how was as good a question,as why their current maniac was putting on such a dramatic show at all.

It would not be now, though, no matter how many questions John may have. For the Detective had spotted something else, falling like mana of heaven into his crime scene, perhaps the solving piece to the whole jigsaw puzzle.

He took a few steps forward, and kicked at a piece of Miata fender.

Rolling it over with his foot, he read aloud, carved brightly in Norse runes:

"Shall Reign in Terror".


	7. Chapter 6: Or Burn the Palace

**Chapter 6: Or Burn the Palace~**

A few hours later, Sherlock was laying on a mountain of pillows on the bed of the room in the Haven that he and John were sharing. Currently, Mycroft was at the British Embassy, explaining their situation to the Finnish authorities, and giving his bomb tech express orders to sweep the area for any more of this maniac terrorist group's plants. Major was scouting the hotel, keeping a look out for the Blood Eagle's possible return, or any body else who might pose a threat to his boys. And Yeats was in the room he was sharing with the Major (only Mycroft was allowed to have his own room, so that conversations with his superiors could be kept in confidence, even from Sherlock if so directed) locked in and under the Major's strict orders to "not move, not breathe, not eat, not sleep, not drink, not take a crap, and otherwise not do _anything_ except sit and watch telly " until he returned.

Sherlock and John were under no such strict orders. They themselves had a job to do. Sherlock's job was solving the mystery of the scrap of Miata from the alley below, which he'd taken a picture of with his mobile, and was currently staring at in a sleepy stupor,pondering its significance. John's job was to keep Sherlock out of trouble until Mycroft and Major returned, Mycroft with the keys to some rental "off road" vehicle that they could take north to the place where the Mistress was keeping Yeat's sister hostage (if she were still alive...)

John had taken advantage of the room's elegant shower, soaking up all the hot water. Unpacked a scarlet cardigan , a loose pair of jeans, and the socks and boots he'd packed for their journey into the Northern wood. Grit his teeth. It was cold in here ,even though the room had a small gas-powered fire-place (some rich celebrity had insisted they add it to this particular room, this being their_ exclusive _room when they made a trip to Finland. John laughed wondering what the pop star would do ,if she were come for an early Scandinavian Christmas, only to find Sherlock Holmes haunting her private suite). He imagined the cold out in the woods, and determined that it could be no less horrible than the extreme heat of his days in Afghanistan. In fact, it may be refreshing.

Finished washing and changing, and ready maybe to sleep for a while (undecided as to whether he should shove Sherlock off the bed, or kip on the sofa?) his eyes found their way to resting on his friend.

He felt an almost frightening sense of joy to be watching the young fellow as he sat there, not a memory,or a hallucination of his grief (that would be very hard to convey the depth of to you, unless you were able to understand how deep his love was for his friend, and then you yourself must truly have loved to the point of a dull pain deep within you). For it hurt, you see, the depth of the love he had for him, it was almost inexpressible, without comparison. When somebody loves their brother it is all natural as there's nothing about it that doesn't flow in sync with family instinct. But the man wasn't biologically his brother, yet he felt somehow _closer _than that_, _and that was a puzzle that John would never be able to wrap his head around. That was a puzzle harder than the very idea of his death had been...

But he _wasn't _dead, not anymore. He was right here, laying cross-legged on top of the bed, a large pile of pillows behind his back, staring at his mobile, as if just looking at the screen will help him.

He was wearing a thin white shirt, the fire-place being close to the bed, so he wasn't really cold enough to slip his jacket back on. John could see the outline of his myriad scars through the sheer fabric. The sleeves were rolled up and he could see the gauntlet burns.

This conversation was long over due. Since they had returned from Denmark, they had been running cases for Greg almost non-stop, distracting themselves from the absolute absurdity of the fact that they could somehow be living together once more, never mind that Sherlock was dead, as far as the world was concerned. But it was inevitable, they were going to have to talk about the time Sherlock was away, they were going to have to feel out the ground beneath their feet now, and see what sort of relationship two friends make, out of the shards left in the wake of a dramatic Fall from grace. For whether all was forgiven and forgotten or no, life still must go on, and it was never going to be the same.

Sherlock blinked, coming fully awake, when he felt the weight of John crawling up onto the bed, laying on his side beside him, chin propped on his palm.

"What?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from what he was doing.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?"

"About what? I take it you don't mean the case?"

John took the mobile away from Sherlock for a moment, and the younger man turned to look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. More than exhaustion was there. His eyes were haunted. He _knew _this was coming; he wasn't ready.

"You know what."

"No...No I don't think we should...It will only trouble you ,immensely."

"You _died _for me. You were tormented for _me._ How am I supposed to take that, mm?Isn't it only human to want to know what was done to you...if you're ok, or if you're still in pain..? If you are...isn't it only human for me to want to help you? 'Cause I can help you; I'm a _bloody _doctor!"

"Maybe we should talk about this when we _aren't _on a case."

"No...No we need to talk about this now. When do you suppose we will have the chance again? So much work recently, no telling how long this winter excursion will take. We may bloody well be here till summer for all you know. No, if we just...talk about it...it will be talked about, and we need never bring it up again. Except I need to know. What...did they do to you, when you were trying to keep me safe? "

"Do you really?-"

"Yes Sherlock I bloody well _need _ to know."

Sherlock swallowed," Do you want me...to tell you in...detail?"

John felt like he could cry. " Yeah , I do. But tell me this...why...did you allow them to? You could have made something up, told them fake information...you could have found a way,...you're clever. Why was that the only reason you could protect me...?"

Sherlock bowed his head, looking nearly sick..."Moriarty's network...had almost as much surveillance as Mycroft does. They would have known I was lying, eventually, and when they found out, you would have been the first to suffer for it, and you would have died in a way that would make Satan's nightmares seem like a rather pleasant place to go to. John, I'm not sorry for what I did. When I thought that it could have been happening to you instead, it gave me every reason I needed to keep living through it, and it got to the place where it became standard procedure; almost didn't even hurt anymore, well at least not till after..."

"Were you...did they...try to ? Umm..."

John was embarrassed to even be asking this question. Sherlock read his mind.

"Molest me in anyway? God, no. They find me repulsive , apparently. That's the only time I ever felt grateful to be repulsive."

John giggled nervously, and clutched Sherlock's hand.

"That's been bothering you for a long time, hasn't it?"

"Yes..."

"No, they didn't, didn't even threaten to do something like that, so it's alright."

"Do you...still hurt?"

Sherlock looked John straight in his eyes, a little blue around the mouth, as if it troubled him greatly to be admitting all of this to him.

"Constantly."

" You mean, even now?"

"I can manage."

"No, don't. Does it hurt right now?"

"Yes."

"How bad?"

"Have you ever been cut open with a dull saw?"

John fell silent. Sherlock swallowed.

"I've grown used to it. S'Alright."

"No...no it's not...it's..." John swallows the urge to cry again.

"What did they do, Sherlock? The truth, every bit of it. Tell me,...let me help. Please, I want to help...if you don't have pain distracting you..you might solve this case faster?"

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. And then, he took John by the shoulders,pulling him closer, as if trying to keep him from possibly falling off the bed during this account, and he told him _everything. _Almost robotically, face a stone mask, as if everything he was saying happened to somebody else.

By the end ,John was speechless. For what do you say when your best friend takes you in his arms, and spends a full hour and a half telling you every minute detail, (from how deep a certain inflicted gash was, to how much his skull bled when he was kicked down a flight of stairs...and these were the easy to stomach things) of how he willingly had laid his life down for yours.

Suddenly John was crying, and Sherlock frowned, wishing he wouldn't; it upset him, he didn't know how to help. Suddenly, he was crying himself, why he didn't know, and he laid John's head against his chest, trying to mute his sobs, thinking maybe if they weren't directly looking at each other this crying thing would be easier.

Sherlock laid back then, letting the tears fall down his face, holding his breath, wishing he could just take it away from John, wishing he wasn't sad, sometimes wishing people didn't have sentiments because it seemed to only cause them more trouble than they were worth. Not realizing he had feelings too, and that maybe that's why he was crying right then. Chewing at his lip, he tried to distract himself, tried to go back to thinking about the case, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. Until he looked at the roof. And there in green spray paint, when he wasn't looking for it, he found the next piece of their puzzle.

"Or burn the Palace." he read aloud.

"Wha-?" John tried to ask, too breathless to really form a full word.

"Oh. I've solved the message on the Miata. See, the rest of its on the roof."

He pointed up. John squinted at it ,swiping at his tears.

"Hey, you don't have to try and guess at it. Your mind's too muddy right now anyway... I'll tell you when Mycroft gets here; get some sleep."

John started to get up, making for the couch, but Sherlock pulled him close again, laid his head in his chest again.

"No ,I mean, just go to sleep. I'll keep an eye out till they get back."

"Uh?"

"I may not really understand the whole "feelings" thing ,John, but I can relate to the event of processing too much at one time..."

Trembling, John lay down , suddenly as weak as a really little kid. He was asleep almost instantly, as if going into a shut down mode, just to be able to handle what he'd heard.

Sherlock smiled through his tears. John was a lot stronger than people knew. Why, just look at all the things he'd survived! He knew he'd be alright.

He also knew that things would never be the same. It wasn't a bad thing. Something was different between the two of them now. Now that Sherlock was "dead"they no longer wasted any thought over what people thought of their unusually close relationship, whether they condemned or praised it.

Things would never be the same, and they certainly weren't going to be the same as they were when Sherlock had died for John. This was a new life, a new series of ridiculous adventures. And now that Sherlock was back from the dead, there was not a single chance in a trillion he was going back in his Grave again, not for a long time anyway.

He smiled at the conclusion he'd come to. Sometimes it just felt amazing to be so clever...


	8. Chapter 7: For the Throne of Fear

**Chapter 7: For The Throne of Fear~**

An hour later, Mycroft returned, with the keys to a Jeep, and outfitted in hiking wear.

"Hello again, Mycroft. I'd say you look like a Winter version of the Crocodile Hunter." Sherlock greeted his brother, spray-painting a yellow ring around the message he'd found on the ceiling, borrowing a can of spray paint from the room of a Californian artist visiting Scandinavia for "yuletide inspiration".

"May I ask why you are defacing the expensive hotel suite I paid for?" Mycroft asked, with a smile that looked painful to wear. John was still asleep, thus not noticing that Sherlock was practically dancing around him, once halfway stepping on his nose, and snapping his lips open and shut with his sock-foot toes .

"Not defacing. The owner gave me permission. It's a crime scene, Myc! I've solved the message on the Miata."

Just then Major came in, dragging Yeats behind him.

"STATUS IS NEUTRAL!" the Major howled, waking John up, who sat upright so suddenly that he accidentally head butted Sherlock in the seat of his pants, scooping him up into a mid-air sitting position,which he immediately utilized, posing like a teacher sitting at his desk before his class, whilst John sat blinking, and confused as to why Sherlock was sitting on his head.

"Thank you, Major." Mycroft muttered, as Sherlock began his lecture, poising the can of spray paint like a teacher does a piece of chalk, or the stick he points to the chalkboard with.

"It's brilliant! The random phrase we found on the Miata is actually part of a series of like phrases all forming a death note. It's a contest!"

"I'm not sure we follow." Major said, and Yeats squinted, and both his brows twisted beyond what seemed humanly possibly, wondering what the heck Sherlock was saying, or how he could balance so gracefully on top of John's head, and not seem to notice that he was even sitting on it?

"Yeah, I'm not sure why exactly you're on my head?" John asked, trying to look up at Sherlock, having his face accidentally slapped by his animatedly flapping hands.

"No, no, don't you see? They are absolutely brilliant! It's a contest, they are voting to see who will reign in "Terror" ,as in, they are building the human notion of Fear up, as if it were itself a kingdom they could rule! Blood Eagle is using Yeats' mistress as his leverage in this contest. He is her pupil; as long as he has her, he has an advantage in the Game. Which is why he doesn't want us to get to her;if we bring her in for questioning, it will lessen his chances in the Greater Scheme"

Sherlock's voice wavered as John shoved him off his skull, his hair suddenly standing up static from the fabric of Sherlock's pants, like a rooster's crown would. Sherlock fell head over heels, said heels thumping against the head board and clicking together impatiently, so absorbed in his lecture, that it didn't matter to him that he was talking to them all upside down.

"You see what's going on! Whoever wins this contest of sorts becomes the next reigning king or queen of the quote/unquote Blood Trade Moran was talking about the night he died! Now that the Great Accomplice is dead, they have to name a successor, and Moriarty's Network was only the business end of the world of crime. It has its own government; that would be Loki's Gauntlet, and other like criminal orders, and ancient "dark art" religions. It has an academic field, which is where your Mistress comes in ,Yeats..."

Suddenly John leaned over Sherlock, cocking his rooster-crowned head in a 180, so that they were eye to eye, and not eye over eye.

"Oi, will you flip over, all the blood's about to run to your head, and then you're of no use to anybody!"

"Circulation is boring!" Sherlock cried, and John grabbed him about the waist, forcing him to do a cart-wheel and land on his knees. Without missing a beat, he continued his lecture.

"If nobody wins the contest, then they rubbish the whole thing, that's what this," he pointed to the ceiling, "Is about."

"And how...did you know all that?" Yeats asked, voice sing song, feeling dizzy, and disturbed by the eccentric detective.

Sherlock licked his hand, and reached and slicked John's hair back down the way it was supposed to be.

"It was all simple logic, really. I just took all the facts from this case, and the pieces I didn't need to use in the result for finding Moran, and I linked them together, did the math... this was the result."

John shrugged, "He's Sherlock Holmes;it's what he does."

"And he is always amazingly accurate." Mycroft admitted, raising a brow, as if keeping a mental score board of the efficiency of his little brother's deductive powers, and being pleased with the results.

"So we trek out to the Forest, in an Operation Rescue Ms. Yeats / seek and destroy mission to eliminate or incarcerate this maniac woman, and by doing so we throw a monkey wrench into the Great Scheme ,and the murderers guild can't name a successor, so they come after us, and we rubbish them?" asked Major, as it all began to make sense.

"Yeah!" Sherlock said, a bright smile on his face.

John and Mycroft exchanged empathetic glances , both of them wishing for more sleep. John being ex-military, however, was more accustomed to this sort of thing, and he leaped out of the bed, landing gracefully in his new boots.

"So are we leaving now, or are we waiting for the Jeep to warm up?"

Sherlock had some how translated himself from the bed, to the chair where he'd hung up his coat and scarf, and he put them on with practiced swiftness. Mycroft threw some boots at him.

"Switch shoes, those will soak straight through, two steps into the forest."

Sherlock gave John a mischievous wink.

"Better perhaps than alarming-pink ,faux-fur house slippers?"

John realized then that he would never live that down, but that accidentally wearing Mrs. Hudson's clothes was the least of his problems now. They were about to walk into Pandora's woods, and whatever they would find was totally beyond him...


	9. Chapter 8: And of the Fallen

**Chapter 8: And of the Fallen~**

The gleam off the snow was pale like the shadow of God. The Jeep was left miles behind, and they wandered in the woods, Hansel leading the way, back to his prison, among the trees that stood tall, and entombed in snow, like great pillars of salt from Sodom's grave.

"There it is. The palace of misery, and the cooking fire for the Mistress of Sorrows..." said Hansel, and he bowed his head, cheeks blushed red, seeming somehow lifeless now, like Pinocchio before his master, as if spider thin strings drew him back, and his flesh was turned to wood and splinters, a carven idol for Her vile worship, the very instrument of Her vigil before Death.

They come to the end of a hike that had gone on for miles of eternal white, with trees layered in the snow, like Pharaohs in their linens, forever sleeping kings of the No Man forest, ...

There stood one lonely hut in the center of the white. The wind blew through it and beat the doors like drums. There was a howl through its walls ,like the ghost of wolves in the wind.

"It's made...of candy." John whispered, stopping short , colliding with Sherlock's back.

And there She stood. Dressed in a long flowing crimson cape, and a wedding gown, with enough petticoats beneath it that it seemed she was swathed in the Winter about them, save only that some of the petticoats were dyed black with the blood of victims, and rose up from under the white lace, like coals sit under white smoke, ominous and red in the places where they almost seemed to glower with flame.

Her hair was black, and soft like the down of ravens. Her eyes were silver like stars; she looked like a queen of the elves, noble and gentle, and clean of any wrong-doing.

And beside her stood Gretel, alive and well, no poison keeping her in frightening dreams, and she had almost an impish smile on her face, and a pink tint to her cheeks, every bit as youthful and healthy as a girl of 22 years should be.

* * *

><p>Hansel cried out, and he stood with his mouth gaping, as if someone had shot him through the heart. Major reached out and took his arm to keep him from falling. Mycroft's lips twisted in disgust, as it became clear to him what had happened.<p>

Sherlock stepped forward, and the look on his face was of such calm wrath that John felt his heart jump and squeeze several beats, as it tried to compose itself, like music tries to fix itself when a note goes off wrong.

"So you have solved the riddle The Eagle and I comprised for you?" asked the Mistress , smiling as she stirred her fairytale cauldron of some simple broth.

"I suppose I should tell you that there are 7 contestants besides he and I, which makes 9 all total. And yes, I am his muse. And Gretel is mine. If you're wondering why she is healthy and awake, I could never kill my daughter, no. She helped me plan her brother's betrayal...for many years now."

"YOU'RE A LIAR! YOU'VE BEEN ABSOLUTELY HORRIFIC TO MY SISTER ALL THESE YEARS! SHE WOULD NEVER HELP YOU!" Hansel started screaming, and it took John and Major to keep him back from her.

" I was teaching her discipline. Because I love her; she is the daughter I _should _have had, had your whore of a mother not robbed my love from me. I only needed you for livestock."

"YOU'RE LYING! SHE HATES YOU. GRETEL, TELL MR. HOLMES...TELL HIM THE TRUTH..."

Gretel looked straight into Sherlock's eyes, and her own sparkled like wishing stars.

"She promised me a place in her kingdom. She swore I would be a princess in it, on my 10th birthday ,she swore. We've been planning this for years and years. And Hansel, trying to be the heroic big brother, bought every bit of it..." she said smiling.

Sherlock's expression didn't change at all. Only cold ,unblinking wrath.

"Isn't it brilliant, Mr. Holmes? A kingdom or Terror, a world with only fear, where the truth is what I say it is! A world without justice...A perfect Anarchy..." the Mistress asked, voice quavering with emotion.

There was no reply. But rather Sherlock lashed out,and flipped the boiling cauldron over, and hot water spilled forth, causing both the Mistress and her Student to shriek in shock and pain as they were scalded.

And Sherlock suddenly drew up to his full height, standing out against the snow, like a flaming pyre, dark and almost billowing his darkness like smoke into the air.

For the first time in his entire life John Watson could say he was truly , horrifically petrified. Of his own best friend...

" Wretchedly ,beautiful fool..." Sherlock said, voice harsh, far colder than the Finnish Winter, colder than the Grave itself. He began to circle them, like a raven does the dead flesh he intends to feast on. Slowly circling, menacing,unblinking.

"Wretchedly beautiful fool. Rather than presenting me with a body, you have stolen a soul...indoctrinated a young mind into your corruption...until she believed it? Believed you to be her mother, her brother the enemy? Believed you to love her, and to give her a place among the Parthenon, when you become the queen of the gods? Wretched,beautiful fool...did you think your beauty could save you?..."

The Mistress had a determined look on her face. " You may have stopped Moriarty, but you cannot prevail against what is coming. A Reign of Terror, a world without truth or light. You will live to see it, your friends will live to see it, and then we will slaughter you all, one great portrait in your blood."

Gretel giggled. But then, Sherlock's eyes knifed into her own, and she fell silent. He smirked, almost mischievously, and suddenly, he was giggling melodically himself, but his laughter fell silent, and his face went back to being the same stone cold mask.

" You..honestly think that you can threaten a dead man with Death?" he cried, snickering snidely. "Or that you could touch me with Terror, and make me blanch? Or that you could persuade me with the lives of the people I love? As if they belonged to you?...Oh, but you are a fool, a beautiful one...but wretched. You trust that the brilliance of your scheme can save you? You trust that your beauty will last? It's for a moment, a breath...roses last only for a day, poor beautiful fool..."

The Mistress was suddenly silent, losing her bravery. Sherlock almost jumped on this.

"Let me teach you a valuable lesson. You cannot threaten the Fallen with a Fall. What, did you think this was somehow going to work, because...you actually mistook me for the _hero_ of your fairytale? Did you mistake me for an angel?" Now he was rolling with mocking laughter. Gretel was eyeing the Mistress , losing her nerve. Then Sherlock's voice took on an almost robotic tone.

"If you threaten the lives of those in my charge, you only provoke my wrath. Did you think your beauty, your Terror, your Greater Scheme could threaten me? Did you think that Death or Armies could prevent me from what I seek? Is that what this Game is about, to punish the usurper of your beloved King? Moriarty was my creator, by giving me death, he gave me a greater power.

The walls of your Tombs cannot keep me in. Nor could any Terror keep me out. I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one _second _that I am one of them. No matter how beautiful your plans may be, no matter how well set your traps...no matter the brilliance of your murders, the price of your kingdoms... I will have the answer to all of the riddles, the keys to your cage...Alive or dead, I will hunt you. Or didn't you hear? I am alive from the Dead, and why did I return, when I was very ready for my everlasting Sleep? The blood that you spill in the earth cries out to me, and I must drink the soil dry, my great Emptiness thirsts...you cannot possibly know my pain.I shall forever thirst, until every drop of blood you have spilt is accounted for...You see, I am Justice itself, I am compelled to continue when my desire is to cease. To return to my Grave, and be at peace...But I cannot until I have burned you...drawn from you every drop of blood, like gold purified in the crucible.I wouldn't be too overly hasty for murder...for that will only cause the Fire to ignite within the vacuum I have become. And love will only intensify the flame, so of all souls beware the most those I keep charge of..."

The Mistress tried to look away, but Sherlock thrust forward, tilting her chin with his first finger, making her look him in the eyes.

"The longer I am in Pain...the more lives you take...the greater you will suffer. And you will look for Death like Greed searches for treasure, but Death is no escape from the Dead. Then you will gasp for breath,and claw for life, but I will find you, I will wake...my Thirst commands me. You will seek for an eternal paralysis, a Void in which to cease from conciousness, but then shall I consume you, in my Nothingness...in my Empty Thirst...until you give back from the Earth everything you shed upon it. Give me the names of the other contestants...end your eternal suffering here and now."

The Mistress opened her mouth to speak them, but Sherlock pulled a piece of paper ,and a pen, from out of his coat.

"No, don't speak , write them down. Sign their lives over to me..."

She willingly obeyed. He took the piece of paper and pen back with a flourish. Then he leaned closer to her, and whispered, his voice like razors:

"Fall to your knees and beg me for mercy."

She fell to her knees. Gretel did the same, suddenly crying, terrified.

"If...what you say...is true...Mr. Holmes..." the Mistress began..." I heard...the rumor...in the circle of the Great Accomplice, that Lazarus had come for us...But I also heard you were a good man...So...I humbly ask you for mercy."

Sherlock's eyes were viper-cold.

"You are a liar, and you won't receive it."

Gretel was crying, and hyperventilating now.

"Your sister is dead ,Mr. Yeats." Sherlock said over his shoulder, to the boy who stood eyes wide as an owls.

"But fear not...I will get Justice for her murder."

The Mistress looked up at him, swallowing...suddenly herself in quiet panicked tears.

Sherlock smiled smugly...shaking his head.

"GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!" he shouted, and the Mistress and Gretel fled like rabbits for the candy-lodge.

Sherlock turned slowly to look at his friends. His eyes fell on them one by one, searching them. Hansel was trying to calm himself, and take deep breaths. Mycroft just stared, for once in his life entirely speechless. The Major even looked a tiny bit unsettled, though his stern face was hard to read.

Last of all Sherlock looked at John, who let out a heavy puff of air, trying to process what he'd just witnessed. It had been like watching a lost soul plead with the Reaper for a few more years, had been truly horrible, and he had a hard time placing the image of that towering Shadow , with the image of his beloved friend, who only a few hours ago had been eagerly explaining this case to him,and teasing him about wearing their land lady's slippers...

This was not the Sherlock that he remembered, but the one that had been to the Grave and back. The one that had taken down Moriarty's Network. And by witnessing this version, this dark and terrifying version of him, it finally came home to John that the story Sherlock had told him, as if it had happened to someone else, of torment and life as a fugitive in taking down the Consulting Criminal and his Accomplice, was real.

John saw the apology in Sherlock's eyes, but only briefly. A numbness took over him, his humanity vanishing before their eyes. He slowly turned, the paper crackling in his hands, and ,robotically, he marched away.


	10. Chapter 9: His Days Shall End

**Chapter 9: His Days Shall End~**

Finland slept in the ashes of the sky, or so the snow that fell ,soft as angelic tears, now felt. The sky itself hung grey as a smoke stained veil, of a bride forever lost, 6 feet under ground.

The sun began to set, and as that day ended, it felt as if the End of All Things had come.

John Watson stood alone, surrounded by trees, that's branches were lifted in the cold wind from yet further North than where he stood, and they shook their ice bound branches, and they rattled like chains, and the wind howled, like the souls in Hell.

There in the middle of the softly swirling snow, with trees that loomed like mountains, bowed accusingly over him, stood Sherlock.

The evening sun unrolled ,like a wave to the Sea of Eternity, and a light ,a warmth from a better place begged him to come away into the Night,... to escape.

He stood somewhat stooped, exhausted like Time itself, the note with the 7 names in his pale hand. His darkness was made all the more dark by the brilliant white about him, so dark was he that he seemed to glow with shadow, which was self-contradictory, and yet John's eyes did not lie.

A wisp of blue scarf was lifted by the wind, and John stopped walking, to look, to catch that blue, as it was painted against this ultra-white-gold canvas of moment.

There it was, like the last wisp of color, like the last thread of his very being that remained in existence. Sherlock. His friend. The scarf was a reminder...

" I have already solved our little puzzle, Doctor Watson." said a quiet voice, as if he were talking to no one at all.

John didn't answer, just let him talk.

"The contest has a prize ,of course. I had already pieced that together, oh,while you were sleeping...The Mistress and the Eagle, they think they are above their peers, so they count themselves as above them, having the numerical value of One and Only in their own minds. If you add One and Only to One and Only you get Two. Apparently ,no one is indispensable to the plan of the King. This Greater Scheme...yes, he did very well in ensuring he would have a kingdom forever. The 7 other contestants, conspired to use the Mistress and the Eagle's egos against them. If you look their 7 initials spell the word A-N-A-R-C-H-Y. Anarchy 1+1=2...

A-N-A-R-C-H-Y +2. It's the name of their prize, how they have already decided to bring about their reign in Terror. It's a serum, much like the ones that released from the ground in Baskerville, a fear inducing hallucinogenic, that they mean to release world-wide. This "contest" is just their diversion, a means to distract us from the real problem. Of course..."

Silence, almost hopeless silence, fell, and the wind howled, and there was a hissing in the ice above, like a mocking voice, telling Sherlock to get back in his grave.

And then Sherlock spoke again, surrendering the note to the wind, blue scarf beating like a wisp of eternal flame from out of his spirit, in the wind about them.

"So easy...All of this...Puzzles and things. And terror, and torment...Dying ,...torture...was far too easy, when you were the one I died for...Only one thing isn't utterly boring. Only one puzzle doesn't make any sense...There's only one riddle that I cannot solve, try as I may..."

He turned,and in the sunset scarlet, that caused the snow to glare ultra lightning-white, John saw that there were silver tears,running in two frozen streams, down his face.

"You..."

John felt his breath catch in the cold wind. He had never seen such a vulnerable look on his friend's face before. It alarmed him.

"John..." Sherlock began, voice steady and stoic as always, expression unreadable now, but not as deceptive as he intended it to be, not with tears frozen on his face,no way to hide his eyes ,I fear.

"The kind of man you are...Great man that you are...You...could have any life you wanted, any life at all. Could have made a new one. One with a wife, and a family. One with a home, not a cheap flat in the rougher end of London...

So...why the _hell?..._are you still here with me? You see what I am like now...you always knew, always _saw_...Darkness in me. But you stayed. And now...now that you are free...that I set you free by dying, John...

Why? Just...just leave this behind you..." he gestured to the Winter. "All of this...the Wars...the betrayal...the Death. The Pain... Everything that was the world of Moriarty, a world I helped him create, just by existing...Just by playing his Game...Let it go. All of the people who were part of that old life John, are gone. I am dead and the connection-whatever it was that drew you to the man that you met in St. Bart's mortuary-whatever drew you to your lab instructor long ago...that man, and the boy before him, are gone forever. I am _never _ coming back, John. Whatever was appealing to you about that kind of life, it's over now...But if you go down this Dark Road...with this Dark Man that I have become..." For the very first time, John saw something that looked like regret in Sherlock's eyes,

"There is no knowing what sort of horrible things could happen to you...Because I am only getting darker,John...and there will come a day when the days of the man you remember will have a firm and lasting end, and you won't even be able to recall him any more. You will be lost in that Dark, with THAT man, John, and he is a very cruel man. A merciless ,heartless, soulless man, more really a walking rack of bones...

So,...tell me...why do you stay? This is your chance,...your very last chance. Walk away..."

John stared at him, mouth agape, totally unable to process what he'd just heard.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, with a tiny shake of his head.

Sherlock opened his mouth to explain himself better, but John shook his head, twisting his lips fighting the urge to cry again. Tired of crying, tired of dragging his heart behind him. Tired of letting Sherlock take the Fall.

"Or rather..._who_ are you talking about? Because...when I look at you...I only see my best friend... The man...that died for me." John was laughing softly now, besides his tears, that he just couldn't fight.

"The man that was tortured to keep me safe, and _God knows_!-" he was walking closer to him now, shaking his head, chewing at his lips.

"The man...that gave me a home, when I was _so _alone...The man I owe so much. The best and wisest man...that I have ever known... "his voice fell to a whisper...

"The man that couldn't lie to me if he tried...The Miracle Man that came back from the Grave to me... To make me believe all over again...

_You_...the best man...And whether you believe it or not...this other person? This dead, dark person...that you may feel like right now...his days will end...He'll get back in his Grave, and you'll get better...You'll survive...because that's what you do. _You _end the Wars you start, and live to walk away. I've seen you do everytime...Lazarus..."

Sherlock let out a shudder,as John reached and took him by the shoulders.

"You are more amazing than you could possibly imagine. You're not a monster...you're not a zombie...you're not any of the names that people have called you, or that you might feel. You are Sherlock Holmes. The Greatest Detective,and very best man,that ever _lives._"

"Lived..."Sherlock whispered.

John pressed a fist into his chest. Both of them could feel his heart beating against it.

"You feel that? As long as that-" he beat his fist against Sherlock's chest ,to mimic the heart within it, "Still beats, then you are _ALIVE. Lives._ Not "lived". And even when you were covered in 6 feet of dirt...you were _always _alive to me. And here's the answer to your riddle...so let it rest in peace. I stay...brother!...because I love you. Sorry if that isn't a clever enough result to the biggest puzzle out of all the ones you've solved...but that's the only reason, the only answer that I've got...And I'm not going anywhere. Won't take one more step, or one more breath, without you being in whatever world I end up in. Dead or alive,Sherlock, I want to be part of the world you are making..."

Sherlock had a look of utter bafflement on his face.

"I...could stop them...from releasing this serum. If I solve for their locations, hunt them like I did all the rest, ...I can...change the world..."

"Of course you can...you will too, I know you will..."

Then John took Sherlock into a fierce embrace, and held him as close as he possibly could, feeling his heart beat seeming to grow stronger, as the Darkness came down like a midnight blue curtain, and the world got ready to set the stage for whatever the next day brought.

"And I'll be right here...to see it done. Straight on till morning..." John whispered, as flashlights ignited in the dark, and the others drew near.


	11. Chapter 10:But Out of the Black

**Chapter 10: But Out of the Black~**

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice called into the wind of night, and far away wolves howled, as if they too were searching for the wanderer with the dark and empty soul. Lonely voices calling him home, praying that he would not go back to his Grave, not truly belonging there.

"I'm here, Mycroft." Sherlock called back, and flicked a cigarette lighter. John gave him a look. Sherlock pressed his lips tightly together ,slightly annoyed, and surrendered yet another pack of cigarettes.

" We agreed you quit for good this time!" John gasped, elbowing him in the ribs.

"Oh come, what could one bloody cigarette hurt, when we have a pharmaceutical apocalypse hanging over our heads?"

" It could hurt your lungs, your heart, your skin ,possibly your idolized brain-"

"Gentlemen ,please...we do have the Apocalypse to divert, and then you can go back to bickering over Sherlock's bad habits..." said Mycroft, smiling smugly, looking ghostly in the light of the flashlight. Beside him stood Sholto, squinting against the darkness, impatiently grinding his cane into the snow.

"Where's the kid?" asked John.

"He's back by the cauldron Sherlock spilled everywhere, having a nervous breakdown. Thought he might require medical attention which is why we actually came looking for you, Doctor Watson. Finding Sherlock was only a bonus. And apparently you have discovered that there is an Apocalypse that needs diverting?" Mycroft replied, with a cheeky grin.

" You are aware that most of the miscreants we encounter are just distractions from those that we actually need to apprehend?" Sherlock began.

"Oh yes, Satan's clowns are everywhere, brother mine. Is that who you are suggesting the Mistress and her friends happen to be?"

"I'm not suggesting it, it is certain fact. I solved the code of the 7 names. They spell out A-N-A-R-C-H-Y (+ 2, the numerical code names for the Mistress and her rival Eagle being One and Only+One and Only amongst the 7)

A-N-A-R-C-H-Y +2. It's the name of a fear inducing hallucinogenic serum they plan to release upon the whole world, that is how they shall procure a Terror in which to reign."

Mycroft nodded, thoughtfully.

"Still there is the problem of finding the 7 to whom these utmost important names belong?"

Sherlock had a cold look in his eyes. "Leave that to me,..."

Everyone grew quiet ,as the shadow seemed to resurface in the man they'd known and loved...

* * *

><p>It took only his entering the candy-lodge.<p>

The others,(minus Hansel, who John had treated for shock, and left swathed in blankets from the cottage's shed, by the fire) stood behind Sherlock, feeling their pulses rise in alarm,at the fire in his eyes.

"Please!...please!...please!" begged Gretel, on her hands and knees.

The Mistress drew a knife.

Sherlock chuckled ,coldly.

"Go ahead. Let's see if you know how to use it..."

Her eyes went wide, as if she were intimidated by the very idea. But, mustering all of her courage, she poised the knife, and traced it over Sherlock's high cheekbones.

John gaped, as the Mistress put two slices , running like tears, down his face. The blood dripped down his face, as if he were weeping blood, and he started chuckling like thunder, and grappled with her wrist with all his strength.

She cried out in pain,as he twisted the blade out of her hand, and she fell to her knees before him, and he stood above her with the knife, poised for a moment as if he would stab her with it.

But then he turned it over to its handle, and handed it to John.

" Have a seat...I'm not going to kill you..."

"But..." Gretel began.

"Do you think I would threaten you with something like Death? It is the inevitable...death is death, it will come to you eventually, how is irrelevant...No...no what I will do to you is _far _worse. I will destroy you, heart and soul, until you are as empty and black as I am..."

His eyes rolled like smoke from the Inferno, and the Mistress swallowed, as if she would pass out.

"What do you want to know?"

"Oh, it's a simple question ,really. Where can I find your masters?"

"What do you plan to do with them?"

"None of your concern ,but if you would like to guess, it will be far worse than anything I could do to you...Now where ARE they? ...Any ideas? ..."

The two women had fallen silent.

"No?" Sherlock asked, and slowly began to stand up.

Gretel shrieked, and fell at his feet, groveling.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Do you really think that _this _will persuade me to show you mercy?"

"Ppp-pplease...Mr...Holmes...my brother...reallly doesn't deserve what you'll do to us...I only wanted to trick him -not-"

"What? DESTROY him?...Not to worry, darling, I will do no such thing to him. No, if anything I will prepare a way for him to rise out of the Black...If any one has destroyed him...it would have been yourself..."

She started to sob.

"Oh? What...can you not live with yourself? Well, maybe you could alleviate your pain just a bit...Here's a thought...betray your masters to me... so that I can save your brother's life."

"Tell him nothing, Gretel. Let him do to us whatever he wishes. We are ladies to the end..." the Mistress said.

"Ladies...?" Sherlock laughed, almost maniacaly. John felt his heart go cold. He was silently wishing like everything for the annoying, self-important flat mate of days gone by. He had been right about one thing...the man that he was was missing...Replaced by a version of himself that might be on the side of the angels, but was in every way a demon.

"LADIES? Lords, ladies, kings, queens, ROYALTY?! In the end they all die, darling. I have been to that Abyss...There was one day in my past, when I went into that Deeper Sleep...And I saw them...as I passed through the Dark. The mighty ,the wise, the old ,the young, the wicked, the righteous...Ladies and lords, gods and men, and fools! The blind and those that can see! They were ALL dead, all rotting, all of them smoking to high heaven, in Gehenna forever, WHERE THE WORM DIES NOT!"

Sherlock leaped to his feet, and Gretel crawled away, cowering against the other side of the candy lodge. The Mistress' mouth gaped.

"I saw as ravens feasted on their flesh, and dogs gnawed their bones, forever and until the planets spin out of orbit, and crash and burn away. I lay there just as I had died, and my guts lay burst about me, coiling about me, choking me, and what little air I could breath, was the foul smoke of the Pit. So, go ahead, remain a "lady".."(he said the last word with a nasal, mocking tone).

"But in the end you shall be with them...Unless you change your course of direction, you will go to that terrible place, and rise no more. An act of God only that I escaped...And don't think that I shall be lenient...Don't think that ,out of pity, I will spare you...no. I am the spirit of Justice,...and remember _ladies..._I am still thirsty...Now...unless you want me to set ablaze a madness in you that will make this Pit feel like a holiday...tell me...where are the Masters ?"

" Chernobyl! They're in Chernobyl, all 7, finishing with the serum. They lack one ingredient, one that if the Mistress can perfect she can win the contest!"

"GRETEL!" the Mistress shrieked, slapping the girl across the face.

"Well done, Gretel! You passed my test!" Sherlock laughed, no longer seeming imposing. He yanked the girl up by her arm, and pushed her into John's hands.

"See to it that she's had proper medical attention, and is reconciled with her brother quickly ,would you, Doctor Watson?" he said, with an impish laugh, as if reveling in that he had tricked her.

"As for you..." Sherlock said to the Mistress, and suddenly, he had the cigarette lighter in his one hand, and another vial of chemicals in his other.

"You have a test to take yourself..."he said smiling wickedly.

"Sherlock?" John asked nervously.

"The rest of you clear off. Let 's see how quickly the Queen of the Dead and her humble servant the Ghost can escape a burning building?"

"Sherlock, I will not allow you to possibly jeopardize the Mission, with one of your imbecile..." Mycroft began.

Sherlock poured the chemical in his mouth, swished it around, sprayed it into the air, and breathed over the lighter at the same time, against the wall, catching it on fire.

With a cry, John pulled the others (were staring aghast) out of the blaze, and watched as Sherlock circled the Mistress, breathing fire, snickering and mocking.


	12. Chapter 11: When He Forgives

**Chapter 11: When He Forgives~ **

John stared wide-eyed, as the building began to blaze, veiling Sherlock and the Mistress in an ocean of fire.

"My...God!" Mycroft whispered, the horror at last of what torment had rendered Sherlock finally coming home to him in full.

Gretel was staring at her brother, who had been woken by the commotion, and was staring in wide-eyed wonder himself, at the blaze.

They could hear them shouting from out of the Inferno.

"DEMON!"

"What did you expect to find ,when you called upon the Dark powers ,witch? Did you expect a knight?..." ( a flame hissed)

"A gallant young knight-a prince from a FAIRY TALE!"(one of the walls crumbled from out of the house)

"DEMON, VIPER, GO BACK TO HELL!"

"NOT WITHOUT A RESULT!"

"DAMN YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

"ALREADY BEEN DAMNED, WITCH!"

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

"YOU CALLED ME UP FROM THE DEAD. NOW PERFORM THE SEANCE! SPEAK WITH THE GHOST, AND ANSWER MY QUESTION! DID YOU KILL THE BARONESS YEATS?"

"YES , I DID! I STRANGLED MY SISTER WITH MY TWO BARE HANDS, RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE BRATS SHE HAD WITH _MY _LOVER!"

There was sudden silence, and then, Sherlock emerged from the fire, with the Mistress under his arm.

Set her on her feet, respectfully straightening her cloak on her shoulders.

"Thank you. You've told me everything I needed to know. We'll have you arrested and promptly sent to England for trial. Well, you anyway. Gretel is staying with us. Don't you have something to say to your brother?"

Gretel turned to Hansel, with tears in her eyes. Hansel looked crushed.

"I'm...sorry."

Hansel wavered for a moment.

"How can I trust you now?"

"You can't..."

There was silence. John's mouth opened and closed rapidly, wanting several times to call Sherlock out on the fire, but paying John no mind, he started pulling pieces of ginger bread out of the walls, and dripping the melting chocolate in between the pieces, and then taunting Mycroft by taking huge mouthfuls of it. Mycroft was so furious, his face truly looked rather Ice-Mannish ,having turned a dull blue, and his lips were quivering. A large peppermint rolled to Sholto, and he smashed it with his cane, and started crunching the little pieces.

"If I don't forgive you, I let her win. _She _is the one who bewitched you. It's alright now, Gretel."

"Ah, good, if only all domestic issues were solved so easily. Very well,Mycroft, I suppose you have the authority to bring her back to town so we can arrest her. Would any one want to bag up this candy before we go? I think it would be lovely if we used it for a large Trojan pinada." Sherlock cried.

He then stepped over the smouldering s'mores, and heat-exploding peppermints, and molten gum drops, heading back towards the Jeep, although it was dark out now.

John's hand closed around his arm, like pincers.

Sherlock slowly turned to look at him, breathing smoke out of his nostrils, muttering:

"Oh for God's sakes, John. Yes, it may have been a bit scary for her, but it got her to talk ,didn't it?"

"YOU COULD HAVE BEEN SERIOUSLY INJURED!"John growled.

Sherlock just stared at him, wondering why that mattered. John realized in that moment, being seriously injured was standard procedure for Sherlock, and he really didn't care if he lived through this case or not. John was livid, and mortally hurt all at the same time. He chose to let the more compassionate part of his nature win out this time, knowing that Sherlock honestly wasn't in his right mind at the moment.

"Look at the bright side ,John!" the Major called, taking fistfuls of melting candy." This will burn all night, and keep us warm! And give us something to eat , though it may well also give us belly aches or even Irritable Bowl Syndrome!"

"And possible obesity and tooth decay." Mycroft added.

"And how is this looking on the bright side?" John asked, shutting them both up. Doctor Watson wasn't taking this situation lightly.

"Here, let me have a look at these..." he muttered, indicating the slices on Sherlock's face. Sherlock was searching him, brows drawn tightly together, fighting to hide that he was deeply upset, but John saw right through him. He knew he had done something a bit not good, he just didn't know what.

John instantly forgave it, and smiled at him..."Don't want you to bleed out,...step to, come on..."

* * *

><p>The candy lodge burned many bright colors and blended in with the Northern Lights. And oddly enough, this evening in the ice-glazed Finnish forest, with a criminal handcuffed and seated in their midst, John had the most fun he'd had in years. For the Major had taken it upon himself to give Hansel and Gretel as much real-peoplereal-world information as he could come up with. Sherlock laid down next to John, wrapped in one of the blankets from the shed that shockingly had not caught on fire, and before the night was even half way spent, he ended up asking the majority of the questions about real people and their real lives, seeming to know even less than the Yeats siblings, who had been raised in the deep woods! Mostly Mycroft was quiet, crunching on bite-sized pieces of the smouldering building. Mostly John teased Sherlock unmercifully all night long, about his lack of people skills, which Sherlock countered with logical theories of how " real lives" and the "real world" were wrong. The Mistress just sat back and scowled, and by the time they started nodding off to sleep, Gretel was even laughing, and cutting up, and saying to Sherlock something like:

"So for a freaky undead Detective-Vampire geek, you aren't really half so bad as all that rot before, yeah?"

To which Sherlock replied, "Oh no, I'm far worse. Shut up and go to sleep."

John laughed quietly to himself for an hour after that, watching Sherlock as he curled up almost like a fox ,trying to conserve warmth, and nodded off,sleeping for the first time in days, because he had solved the case, (mostly anyway).

Discreetly, lest people talk, John reached an arm around him, and pulled him closer to himself, so neither of them would be cold, wrapping his own blanket as well as Sherlock's around the both of them, and himself falling fast asleep.


	13. Chapter 12: They Shall Rise

**Chapter 12: They Shall Rise~**

**Author's Note: Part of the event of this chapter was inspired by Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows. I always like to reference the different adaptions of Sherlock Holmes, in which ever category with his character I am writing for. Also, a little warning, this chapter is a bit violent. There will be a little blood.**

The morning Sun had come to meet the winter, like a groom meets his bride at the altar, and John woke up, the blankets now cold beside him.

Sherlock was standing ,looking out across the snow, blue scarf again batting about in the wind ,like flame portrayed in water colors.

John stood up, the morning cold waking him up fully, and came and stood beside Sherlock, instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Though he wasn't speaking, there was something he could sense, knew in his bones, was very wrong.

The others were fast asleep, Gretel laying close to Hansel, head resting on his back, like all was forgiven now. The Mistress even looked peaceful in her sleep, and Major and Mycroft were snoring in harmony. John looked back at them and smiled, and then looked up at Sherlock's drawn expression. So drawn...so care worn as of late...John felt himself searching for a way to lift his spirits, a means of unraveling the grey that twisted itself about him like a phantom serpent.

"We have one result. We still have the problem of the Blood Eagle though...his story...what he gets out of this whole thing..." Sherlock said, at last, softly, as if he feared his darkness may frighten away the morning light. John let his hand slide up his back, and clutched one of his shoulders with all his might.

"This rate you'll have it solved, the end of the world diverted, and us all home in time for Christmas! No worries, mate."

"Oh, I'm not "worried" as in I'm not concerned that I won't solve it in time. I have developed a sixth sense , I call it "sonar"...I can feel when I am about to encounter someone I have crossed swords with in the past, and I feel that you and I will encounter our Eagle face to face very soon. I am concerned for your safety..."

John shook his head. Sherlock was totally unbelievable sometimes. Here he was the one who had been violently tormented, and he was worried about _John's _safety?

"Whatever happens, we're protecting one another. We'll be alright."

Sherlock looked sidelong at the others. Then he turned to face John, hands going to his shoulders. Drew a deep breath.

"Yeah...Yeah, it's all fine, isn't it? " he nodded, smiling as if he was still unsure. "Ok. Get them up."

John turned to do as he'd been asked, but felt a dread circling like vultures in his stomach, wondering what it was that Sherlock's "sonar" was picking up?

* * *

><p>It was around 3 o clock that afternoon when it happened.<p>

They made it back to Helsinki safely. The Mistress was taken to the British Embassy, and Mycroft gave his people the case, and they flew her back to England to stand trial.

The Yeats siblings were moved into their own room on the hotel's campus. Mycroft still had his own room, and the Major was staying with Sherlock and John now, intending to be in the room "at night for a few winks, until we shove off to Chernobyl, or wherever it is we're going".

It had been decided that they would stay in Helsinki one week at the longest ,to solve their problem with Blood Eagle.

Around noon Mycroft called and said he would not be back to the hotel for quite a few more hours, so would someone please "be sure and feed the goldfish". Major took the incentive, gathered Hansel and Gretel up, and walked them to a restaurant, turning the GPS tracker on for Sherlock's phone in case he and John had problems whilst he "took the kids out for a stroll".

John and Sherlock were left to their own devices from 12-3, using their time to investigate the scene of yesterday's crime, and try to get a bead on the bird their prey.

He found them first.

* * *

><p>"So, we found a random bullet fired into the middle of a blast, what's that supposed to tell us?" John was asking.<p>

Sherlock stood with one glove in hand. His bare palm was upturned, examining a bullet.

"It tells us that our Eagle is very good at seeking out his prey. There was a certain individual here yesterday that he intended to assassinate, using the blast as a diversion. I've seen the like of this before...it's a worn out trick, probably because it's a very good trick. Still...I am of the belief that criminals ,if they simply must be criminal, should be a little more original..."

" You would be wise not to insult me, not when my wrath is kindled." said a voice.

John felt himself grappled with, two sharp nailed hands clamping down on his face, partially smothering him, and a woman's voice saying in a harsh Germanic accent (he couldn't tell if it was German or somewhere in the Netherlands...)

"Shhh! It goes worse for him if you make a fuss, Doctor Watson."

John felt his survival instinct snap into gear, this very moment like being propelled back into Afghanistan. He was suddenly forcibly composed, stiff, trying to measure all of his means of escape, his plan of action.

That disappeared when he saw what had happened to Sherlock.

He hadn't even heard him cry out. "Of course!," he told himself, "Stupid, of course he didn't cry out...he's too USED to this!" John basically shouted in his mind.

Sherlock was hanging from one of the back walls of the hotel, suspended from a fire escape ladder, blood welling up in his coat, swinging from two hooks that were pierced into his ribs like elephant tusks. John could see long gashes down both sides of his rib cage, some of the bone exposed, the hooks clenching into the actual bones themselves, and resting in between them, putting a strain on them,bending them without breaking them.

Sherlock's mouth gaped for a moment, and blood was forced onto his lips, smattered a bit like when a lady smears her lipstick. He closed his eyes, and drew a rattling breath, rolling his neck on his shoulders. Then he opened his eyes, immediately getting down to business...

" If you honestly were more original, then it wouldn't come as an insult to you."

The Blood Eagle lit up a propane torch. Sherlock smiled. "Go ahead."

With a sick smirk, he held the torch to the hooks and melted them in place. They would have to be surgically removed now. John was thrashing, trying to fight, but his heart was starting to beat erratically.

"Poisoned finger nail polish..You'll be a little loopy for a while, Doctor..." the woman hissed, scratching him with the poisoned nails in question.

The worst part of watching Sherlock being tortured was the expression on his face. He wasn't gasping in pain, groaning or crying , like most of the people John knew would be. His features weren't even twisted.

He was smiling.

And when the Eagle was done, he was laughing.

Which took the Eagle aback.

"Did you actually have to go to all this trouble to get my number? I'm flattered, really...So, have you come to tell me what you're all about ,then? Is this a confession?"

"It's a warning."

Sherlock rolled his neck, rumbling with laughter, which made him bounce on the chains he was hanging from, and the fire escape ladder shivered ,as if in fear of him.

"Warn me? Any warning you might have given me has come much too late. But I have a warning for you...Take your hands off John Watson this instance, and if you dare to ruffle a single hair of his head, I shall follow you to Hell, and Lucifer will need expel me for the havoc I will wreak when I am there..."

The captors were silent, as if uncertain...Sherlock shouted something in Danish at the woman that was grappling with John, and John literally felt her heart beat into his back she was so afraid, and she shoved him as far away from herself as she could.

"Sh-Sh..." John managed to gasp, twisting about, grabbing a trash can lid like one might a shield, and crawling to Sherlock's feet, ready to beat any one within an inch of their immortal soul, if they came any closer, never mind that he was weak and drugged. One of the Eagle's boys made the mistake of coming just a bit too close, and John growled like an animal would, and hit him hard enough to break his toes. He squealed like a pig and stumbled away.

The Eagle stood face twisted in consternation, that even suspended from hooks, like a rogue puppet, Sherlock was still getting a one up on him.

"So, it's _not _a warning, on your part , it's a confession. Tell me...what is this Game you are playing? What is the objective of it?"

The Eagle smiled, "Raising the dead..."

Sherlock twisted his brows, skeptically.

" You? Interested in resurrection?...The rest of the Gauntlet might say that you've gone soft. What a benevolent thing to want to do; an act of charity for those in the Pit!"

"Not ressurection...Mr. Holmes. Seance. I mean to call them up. Maybe not their actual souls. Their faces ,their voices, their images...I mean to cause them to rise...my Army. The Seven Masters may think me to be a fool; I'm not truly. I'm a villain, a cowardly lion, and a starving one at that, lying in wait for my opportune moment. The Mistress was only the damsel in distress, my muse and my diversion...And the one able to ensure I have my key ingredient...I bought a Kingdom for cheap...and you destroyed it with a cigarette lighter, and a mouthful of flammable liquid."

Sherlock's lips parted in a silent "Oh!"

" What a MARVELLOUS...Aha, this case! Oh thank you Peter Yeats!" Sherlock gasped, pressing his shaking hands together...

"You tricked her into helping you betray your masters...by pretending to love her...? But you...meant to kill her...when it was done. Her...and the boy...that's who the bullet was for I take it...The girl, heaven forbid me from even uttering what you probably intended for her...Precious really...You are a beautiful fool too...just like your lady accomplice...Well, no matter...Fire consumes all flesh the same..."

The Eagle smiled, wickedly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock Holmes. My name is Virgil Sinead. I was the best man at the Baroness' wedding , you know, and Yeats named me the godfather of his two children."

Sherlock was nodding, and smiling, showing all of his (bloodstained) teeth.

"I'm listening..."


	14. Chapter 13: On Wings of Truth

**Chapter 13: On Wings of Truth~**

Sherlock woke without opening his eyes, feeling like his eyelids were ceiled with slabs of stone, like ancient tombs.

The shadow of the Major loomed over him. His rescuer. He felt that he should be grateful, and yet somehow he almost wished he hadn't saved him.

Sherlock was ready to go back to Sleep.

That would be over John Watson's dead body.

He felt John's tender hands on either side of his face.

"Open your eyes ,mate...Let me see your eyes..." he was saying ,softly.

The world began to ebb and flow back to him like the tide. Whether he was ready for it or not, he was awake. The winter breathed into his face, and the sun kissed him like his mother would when he was an infant and he woke. He blinked, as his eyes adjusted to the light that seemed to emanate from John.

"Hey..." John laughed, drawing a hand over his brow.

"Sinead." Sherlock breathed.

The Major turned, a lead pipe with blood smeared on it in his one hand. The other hand held a pair of wings he'd ripped off the man's costume.

"I've given him a fair warning, Sherlock..."

"By which he means he gave him a sound beating. Nothing like what he's done to you though..." John hissed, a gentle hand on Sherlock's chest keeping him from sitting up.

"...He was Mr. Yeats best friend...A love triangle, or more like a love square, really...Didn't know people had those?" Sherlock muttered, grinning at how clever this all was.

"Usually they don't. Oi, lie still!"

"So, he was in love with the Baroness, the Baroness was in love with Yeats, Yeats wasn't really in love with either of the two sisters, and the Mistress went mad over Yeats, which set this whole carousel into motion? And this is the reason why I have come to the conclusion not to fall in love...Least I did,...but a different kind."Sherlock muttered.

John swallowed, and reached and gingerly began to pull Sherlock's long dark coat off.

"Your coat is ruined..."

Just then Mycroft, Hansel and Gretel came running to the scene.

"Oh my God!" Gretel sobbed, standing on shaking knees.

"Well, I have lots of coats...It's alright."

"We're spending the winter in Finland, and possibly Chernobyl. Tell me you brought another coat." John demanded, and Sherlock nodded ,wishing he wasn't being so fussy. His head was hurting, with all the glare of light about him. Sometimes he didn't like the light...he wanted darkness...it felt safer, somehow warmer...Than all this daylight. This being awake.

There was one light that felt warm, one light that felt safe. Rather than being a sun ,ablaze and glaring through the day, exposing his broken soul, he was more like a North Star, a soft light,a guiding light, a healing light, a wishing light. One you could safely entrust your heart with...

John.

Sherlock shivered, and his hand swept through the air. Why was that girl crying so much? What exactly was Hansel shouting about, and clutching at his mouth for? Why was Mycroft leaning against the wall, panting like that? Why were they all so UPSET? This was what he did. He bled, he got hurt. He got up and closed his veins, and got back to work again. All of this...fussing...his stomach was twisting, like a viper in the snow...all of it too cold...too bright...He felt wet and sticky on his stomach too...oh right...he'd bled out on himself. The wind blew over the hooks turned to rings that were digging into him, twisting his ribs. He felt pain howl through his body like a wolf dying from hunger pangs, lonely and familiar, and still seeking for relief where he wasn't going to find it. Sherlock wished the old Pain-Wolf would stop prowling through his bones. Just go back to Sleep...

"If you all would just stop crying for a second, we could CONCENTRATE!" Sherlock growled, head thumping against the snow.

John's gentle hands stilled him again. His voice reached him like some mist released drug...There was only one person alive that could make him feel so...human. Make that be ok.

John very gently cupped his hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck, and tilted his head to looking at him.

"Listen. We'll get back to work in a little while. That bloke confessed to everything anyway, before you blacked out, so you really don't have any work to do at the moment ,mate. Major gave him a good beating, so he won't be back for Round 3 anytime soon. You're job now is not dying on us, though you may have to take it as easy as you can, for a bit. You've bled too much, Your ribs are twisted; if you move the wrong way before I get rid of these hooks, they could snap. And pulling these hooks out, the way that they are shaped,...it will hurt."

Sherlock sniffed, like he doubted it would be all that bad. John really couldn't believe it. He'd been hard on his body before...but...

He had told him about his torment ,though. Had told them there was a lot of it that his memory wasn't perfectly clear on, from blood loss and what not. Believe it or not, this was actually being let down easy for Sherlock Holmes.

Shaking his head, John opened his medical bag. He had a pair of forceps in there...for cases of partial impalation from shrapnel that he'd dealt with in the pass. He'd never used them for anything as big as these hooks before though. Then he looked at the surgical saw.

"Sherlock...this is _really _going to hurt ..."

Sherlock just lay there, looking up at John trustingly.

John had Mycroft press Sherlock down by the shoulders, so he could run the saw back and forth on the hooks turned rings, so he could cut them in half and pull them out again.

The others were bracing themselves for the worse. Tortured facial expressions, screams, possible blows, and curses, and weeping, and shaking, and begging, ...things they usually associated with a person in the sort of traumatic pain Sherlock had to be in ,whether he would admit it or not. But he did none of those things. He just closed his eyes, and drew rattling breaths, sometimes his breathing turning very shallow, or stopping altogether, if the saw slipped a bit, and John jerked the hooks too hard.

John and Mycroft exchanged nervous glances whenever their eyes met. Not afraid that Sherlock would take a turn for the worse, not afraid what his reaction would be to so much pain. Deeply disturbed that he was taking it so _well. _Wondering what sort of hell Moriarty's world really had been like...

Very carefully John eased the hooks out, letting the slack on his ribs go slowly, so they wouldn't break. He had known men, soldiers, that would be crying like babies right about now. Sherlock just laid there, occasionally looking up at the sky with glassy eyes...as if impatient for this to be over.

Suddenly, Mycroft did something John didn't expect. He started running his hands through Sherlock's jet curls, smoothing them back, looking down into his face from right side up, and Sherlock looked up at him from upside down.

"You...you are in pain...aren't you? You aren't so numb that you don't feel anything?" asked Mycroft, for once in his life sounding not so sure of himself.

"Oh God ,yes..." Sherlock said, voice slightly more shaky than before. "Just not reacting to it...Problem?"

"Oh no...just concerned you may be damaged more than the good doctor was telling me."

"When it comes to Sherlock's life, I coöperate with you 100 percent." John was quick to correct him.

"Of course someone will need to relate the whole confession to me...after the part where I blacked out...so that I can scan it for holes; he could have been lying."Sherlock interrupted them.

"True...and of course we will! I will..." John was suddenly babbling..."We can talk about it all day long if you like...all week even..."

He wasn't really sure what he was saying next, just kept talking, just needed to talk to him, because he still could. Cleaned off his blood, bandaged him tightly.

Suddenly wishing this wretched case was over. Wanting to take him home. It really wasn't about the thrill of the hunt for him anymore...even if it used to be. Now it was just about getting Sherlock, his Sherlock, not this mentally unwell version, back.

God, how he loved him! How he wanted him to know, how he wished he didn't hurt anymore. Was hoping, was praying to God in heaven, that something would just happen that would bring his Sherlock back to him, blowing off a windy Baker Street, hair a mess, eyes lit up like a maniac, raving about something he solved and "what a brilliant murder".

Almost missed it when that something did ,at last, happen.

"The wings of truth?" asked Gretel, looking at what Major was holding.

Everybody turned to her...

"He didn't tell you that part?" she asked.

Mycroft swallowed..."It sounds like we are in need of a chat. John, do take him upstairs. We 'll all be up shortly."


	15. Chapter 14: Sworn of Icarus

**Chapter 14: Sworn of Icarus~**

_"Sherlock..."_

He hangs by the thread of that voice, between heaven and the earth,between the Spirit that is calling him and John's strong arms, as he pulls him into an elevator, and takes him up the stairs.

_"Sherlock..."_

_"I'm here...Sir."_

_Sherlock for a moment is standing in the same white room,with the couch and the many colored blankets...the room in the mind palace, (or another mind palace entirely that he has access to through his own) where he meets his Teacher._

_The Galilean turns around. Sherlock takes his image in. Same lion-golden eyes, and chestnut hair...wise eyes, a look in them as if he is Ancient of Days...and yet he couldn't be any older than 33, around the same age as Sherlock is._

_"Sherlock..." says the Teacher, with a sad smile. Sherlock waits for him to speak, to show him the error of his calculations, what he needs to do better to get this result, so he can get the others safely home._

_He used to get a thrill from his Work. And he still has a passion for the sport, but it's different now. There isn't any thrill to life anymore, there is only a desperate need to protect, to spare the others from the cruelty that is as deeply entwined in his soul, as those hooks were twisting in his bones._

_"Yes...sir?" Sherlock asks, fidgeting, hands folded behind his back, his coat somehow whole and without blood stains here, his scarf caught up in an unseen wind._

_The Teacher pulls away from the window._

_"Do you know why I sent you back to them in the first place?" Sherlock thinks on this for a moment..._

_"No."_

_The Teacher nods..."For the same reason that I sent you to the children of Anders Yeats. Redemption..."_

_"I'm afraid I don't follow you...which should flatter you, as it is very rare that I can't follow anyone."_

_"It wasn't time for you to Sleep, when you fell from that rooftop...Sherlock. It's not time for you to go now...This was never meant to be your end. Darkness. Pain. Totally lost..._

_Whether you believe it or not, you are human, and you exist for the purpose of love. To love and to be loved, which is the reason why Justice itself exists, so that all the scales may be equal between all people, equality and peace being at the heart of Love itself. I sent you back to find your heart again...Go to him, Sherlock. He is in pain. Heal your Physician, and so heal yourself."_

_"Sir?"_

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?!"<p>

It is not the Teacher that speaks to him now, but John, who has laid him in the bed of the room in the Haven again.

It was like Divine revelation in that moment.

John.

The look of pain on his face. The strain all of this had put on him. How his Great Darkness was threatening to kill John's Light.

If Sherlock Holmes was ever going to recover from his torment, it would be for the same reason he chose to allow himself to endure it in the first place. His reason to live. His John.

Sherlock feels his heart wake up right then, his pulse fluttering like a bird pulling itself out of the ashes in which it was buried alive. He's in tears suddenly, and he reaches both hands to John's face, holding it, wondering to himself, "_Stupid..of course...He still needs you... how could you even allow yourself to think about Sleeping?"_

"Hey..." John laughed, clutching Sherlock's wrists..." You bloody well scared me just now! I thought you were checking out on me..."

"I would never do that to you..." Sherlock answered, and John's eyes lit up understanding.

"No...Of course you wouldn't..."

John propped Sherlock up, and turned around to set out the backpack he tucked his medical bag down in so he could carry it more efficiently.

"I think you should be in the hospital ,but Mycroft said it was too risky. You missed Sinead's dramatic confession, well most of it, because you lost conciousness from blood loss pretty quickly. He had just been telling you, about how he was planning on raising the dead. Did you figure that part out, 'cause Mycroft was clueless as to what that was supposed to mean, when I told him. For Mycroft to be clueless...it has to be pretty confusing."

"Oh, no, it's easy, Mycroft must have just tried to over complicate it..."

"Well, he had a lot on his mind...you were really bad off there for a little bit. We were afraid we were going to lose you. You've proved us wrong once more as always..."

"I TOLD you it wouldn't be the same as last time."

John smiled at him, knowing that he always kept his promises.

"Yes. Yes , you did."

"It's easy, Sinead wants to use the serum to cause a mass hysteria Seance. Meaning, he wants to cause people to hallucinate into thinking they are seeing the faces, and hearing the voices of the dead. Of people they killed... He has his own little ingredient to add to the serum, and the first person he intended to use it on was the Mistress, because she strangled his lover. And the next set he wanted to use it on are his Seven Masters, to keep them under his thumb. Heaven forbid he actually win the contest fairly, no..he rigged it. Tricked the Mistress into rigging it for him. Had to bully me, because I complicated his plans, by destroying the final ingredient the Mistress had unwittingly made for him, to seal his betrayal of her." Sherlock explained.

John laughed, "Bravo. Solved all of that , after having sustained major injuries, and losing about 25 percent of your body's blood."

Sherlock gaped.

"Now that you've cleared that bit up, let me tell you, it gets even better. He confessed to , as soon as he releases this serum, planning to make the Seven Masters his little puppets. He is going to arrange for the murder of Anders Yeats, which is Peter and Margaret (Hansel and Gretel's) dad's proper name. Get this: Anders is the people's favorite candidate for Prime Minister of Denmark. Once he's been offed, and Sinead gets his revenge on him, he'll have to have a replacement, it will throw the elections way off. So, Sinead means to take his place and campaign for the Ministry of Denmark, and then rig it all where he gets the position..."

"So that he will be in the most strategic place of power to steer Loki's Gauntlet into worldwide government overthrow, and the creation of a World Wide anarchy. Start small, like with the little country of Denmark, work your way up... corrupt Germany next, by laundering Denmark's money (using all the Horatio Milverton methods) to the heads of the Gauntlet there, giving them the means to take over, and ,next, move to the UK...which the only way you're getting in there is to get to Mycroft Holmes. Already tried to assassinate him the last go around, that didn't work. So, instead, get to him by getting to his little brother. Which is why Sinead came to warn me." Sherlock's eyes lit up. This was worse than he previously thought.

"Whereas he wanted the Seven Masters for puppets, he wanted you to be his "hero" his "gallant knight",his "Prince of Denmark". He meant to perfect the serum especially for you, to bring you under his control. Not just his puppet; your mind's too powerful for that. His secret weapon, the very incarnation of Loki's Gauntlet itself, his "iron fist"."

"Really, John? Even I don't have such high opinions of myself."

"Yeah...like you'd actually fall for it,right? Anyway, he wanted to get to you, and recreate you with drugs into being some kind of robotic master assassin, that would kill off Mycroft, and worm your way through the doors of Parliament for him. Until you had taken down the system you swore to protect. After which he planned to have a public exectuion of the Masters, performed by you, in front of the rest of the Gauntlet...and then...when it was all over, the coup de gras of the whole thing...he was going to make you kill me, and then sacrifice us both in some weird Gauntlet ritual, and let the Anarchy begin,with himself as the closest thing to an Anarchist King as you get."

Sherlock laid there staring at John for full 5 minutes. "Do people really have such illusions of grandeur? James Moriarty would be laughing this fool to scorn right now."

"You've foiled the entire plan though." Gretel said, bursting into the room just then.

John helped Sherlock sit a little more upwards...

"By burning your Mistress' laboratory?" Sherlock asked, curling a brow.

Major followed Gretel in, the wings he'd plucked off Sinead's costume wrapped in plastic now.

"Well, that, and by not fitting into their mold." Gretel said, grinning impishly. Mycroft and Hansel came in last, Hansel closing the door, and smiling boldly, given the courage to defy the system he'd been raised in.

"Do you care to explain to me what exactly I have supposedly done, Ms. Yeats?" Sherlock asked bewildered.

Gretel laughed. "Well, believe it or not, you did all this, just by being yourself."

Sherlock's brow curled, confused. Just being himself, had lead to his death by Falling in a previous life. How did it help them now?

Hansel stepped forward, "Remember when _you_ said, that Sinead had picked you as his specimen for the blood eagle?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up, and John sensed that he had finished piecing their puzzle back together.

Gretel laughed, "You see, in the Gauntlet system, the next Gauntlet bearer, who is basically the head chairman of the whole order, has to pick an "Artifact", or a glorious act that he has to complete before he can be worthy of his new title. Blood Eagle's "Artifact" was to perform the "blood eagle" on a victim of his choice. The Artifact becomes the symbol of the Gauntlet bearer, his very identity. He has to swear by that Artifact. Well, he made you his Artifact, and he gave you a stage name, like all Gauntlet members have. You are his "Icarus"."

Sherlock laughed..."Oh, I can't imagine where he got THAT name..."

The Major looked up slowly,"Icarus was the character in Greek mythology that flew too close to the sun, and so his makeshift wings were melted off, and he fell to his dramatic death..."

"You got too close to their "sun" or Moriarty, and you fell to your death." John whispered.

"But because you returned to life, via Lazarus syndrome...because you were able to foil all of the Gauntlet's plans, being a vital player in the Game that lead to the end of Sebastian Moran, and because you sabotaged Sinead's every plan, and now because the Major has ripped off the wings from Sinead's costume, the wings being his symbol, and has placed them in your possesion...And because nobody else could foil Sinead..."Gretel began...

"That makes _me _the winning contestant, and I wasn't even playing the Game." Sherlock laughed.

"With these'" Hansel cried, lifting up the wings, "You could call a parley with the Seven Masters. Because Sinead is sworn to Icarus, he would also have to appear. You could gather them all under one roof, force them to destroy their serum, as its part of their code..."

"Bag them and rubbish them all!" Major cried, catching on.

"Will he be in danger?" John asked,nervously.

"Is it really that simple?" Mycroft asked, eyeing Sherlock curiously.

"To answer both of your questions..yes...it will be dangerous...of course it will. And no, there's no way it could be that simple. But I am sworn to Justice, and will do what I must." Sherlock reasoned.

A silence fell, and Mycroft nodded...

" You know how to make contact with the Masters?" he asked Gretel.

"Yes, sir."

"Then you will assist me in doing so. You others, except the Doctor,occupy yourselves in surveillance while we are detained. Sherlock will need rest before we make another move..."

And with that, the others left John alone with the current reigning King in Terror.


	16. Chapter 15: The Heart Must Surrender

**Chapter 15: The Heart Must Surrender~**

"So...I guess that makes you the King in Terror now...Well, I never saw that coming, your nibs!" John laughed, very carefully changing the blood soaked bandages around Sherlock's abdomen, and reapplying a clotting solution, brow crinkled, with many concerns only a doctor would know to trouble himself with.

"John, I need to tell you something..."

John didn't look up from what he was doing.

"Go on, I'm all ears..."

"Well, that's just it ,I don't know how. I am complete rubbish at this sort of thing."

John looked up at him, a brow raised. Sherlock swallowed...looking confused. Whatever he was thinking, feeling, whatever human thing had left him in such a stupor, would have to be examined before they were to go a single step forward, in the result of this case, and in life as a general rule. John drew a deep breath. He'd secretly hoped for a long time this conversation would come...

"Think the only way to say it is just to say it, Sherlock." he answered, matter of factly. Sherlock swallowed.

"I know what I've been like recently...I know that...it troubles you...I know that...for your sake, I am going to have to change. I'm not the man that I was, which is probably a good thing. You see, I was probably the most obnoxious man that ever breathed before...and I've been given a second chance..."

Now John was really listening.

"And a third and a fourth chance...I don't know how to make it clear to you, but I have a solution to the great dilemma of how to fix me now that I am so broken. You were the one who always believed I was a man beneath all of that Great Machine...and you were the one that prayed for a miracle. So I came back to you John, from beyond the Grave. It was not Destiny, not some call to return to unfinished Work that brought me back to life,John. It was you. You saved me."

John's jaw had gone slack. Sherlock was actually trying to have a heart to heart with him? As strange as this was...it was a very good thing, and John felt almost giddy wondering if it could possibly mean what he hoped it did, that Sherlock was actually going to be ok now, was going to be himself again...

Sherlock swallowed, unsure of himself.

"I love you, John."

John laughed, not having expected to ever hear those three words out of _Sherlock Holmes_!

"Well, I mean, not like...Not sentimentally or like umm romantically or anything like ahhh..."

"I know what you mean, you dolt!" John laughed, clutching Sherlock's hands, and Sherlock laughed, and chewed at his lip, still morbidly confused, but trying his best.

"Before Jim Moriarty came around, I thought that I truly didn't have a heart. But he knew better...and targeted that part of me that is my greatest weakness, but also my greatest strength. It appears that you are my heart,and that I have to heed your voice of sanity, and surrender to you ,every time. It was you that I died for, and you that I survived for. Living is more than survival though, it's an art, and needs to be a little more original than what I've been doing as of late. I think...I think I'm going to actually _live_, John. For you. Come back from the Empty Black, and start over. I had you to guide me before, and if I am steadfast I think, surely, I could follow you again...I..."

Sherlock never finished what he was saying, because John was basically smothering him in his embrace, trying not to hurt him. Sherlock was further surprised to feel John's lips press against his forehead, kissing him firmly between the eyes.

"I knew there was hope for you..."John mumbled into Sherlock's shoulder,with a softly crackling laugh. "Don't try to solve that one, I just _knew_...Oh God yes, Sherlock, yes you can, and yes you will...I will see to it personally. We've just got to get through this case first...Which we can't do if you don't at least somewhat recover from the row in the back alley today. Lay back now." he laid him down, all the way, and noticed that he winced. Finally admitting to himself that he really did hurt.

"You know...it's not really living, just surviving more or less...to deny when you are in pain...I could help. I could give you something for the physical part of it. I will be here for all the rest..."

"Being perfectly open and honest isn't really my forte, but...I was afraid...to ask...well..."

"Because you thought you'd get hooked again? No...no I wouldn't allow that to happen. If you self-medicate ,that would be a problem. But clearly, you haven't been doing that, I would be able to tell...Being perfectly honest, I am very proud of you for holding out without doing that...for so long. You don't have to be in pain anymore...God knows you don't...But I can help...Will you let me?"

Sherlock swallowed, "Please?" he asked.

And the way he said it was enough to tell John all he needed to know. Under all that Black, under all that terrible aura, and cold mask he wore, he had been desperate for the pain to stop. That really was the root of all of it, the merciless ,cruel, dark-hearted man he believed himself to be. The man that wanted to go back to Sleep...It was only a man in terrible pain, voraciously desperate for the pain to end.

"Ok." John said, softly, smiling at him, and reaching and smoothing back his hair. He turned, and pulled a syringe out of his medical bag. Filled it with the strongest pain medication that he had, and reached, and wrapped Sherlock's vein, wiping it off, and sticking him with the needle. He smiled at him, seeing the guard let down in his eyes, and the mummified grey uncoiling from him, the full ,untold extent of his pain laid bare, pain of that extent itself a ravaging mental illness...No wonder...Feeling great anguish at finally understanding just how badly he hurt, and great relief at ,at last, being permitted to help him, John laughed, and pushed the liquid into his veins...

"Go to sleep, Sherlock..." he whispered.

About 3 seconds went by ,before Sherlock surrendered to euphoria, just for a moment finding a small measure of peace.

"Looks like you've finally seen the light, little brother. Love is the only thing that's ever going to guide your ship to shore..." John whispered, bending over him,and kissing his forehead again, very carefully getting up ,lest he at all upset the bed, and milling about the room, quietly occupying himself with other necessary things, letting him at last sleep...just not the Sleep he thought he needed.


	17. Chapter 16: To Love's Holy Flame

**Chapter 16~ To Love's Holy Flame~**

"Ladies and Gentleman, and people of the Dark Arts. Today we gather here, on the sainted steps of St. Nicholas, to crown he who shall haunt the dreams of every living soul from the Eastern Sunrise, to the Western Fall. ALL HAIL, ICARUS, KING OF THE NIGHT!"

John drew a shaky breath. Normally, he would feel terrible about breaking in here after church hours, very late in the night of the same day Sherlock was brutally attacked in the back alley of the Haven.

But Mycroft and Sherlock had developed a plan to make sure they bagged everything and everyone pertaining to this "Hallucinogenic Epidemic" (which was the title of the file this particular case's confidential information was put under, and sent to Vauxhall Cross). They had come clean to the Presidential Palace of Finland ,explaining the whole situation to them. They had contacted the current Prime Minister of Denmark, as well as her Majesty the Queen of the Danes, and Mycroft's people had moved like mice in the shadows, rounding up a protection unit of Danish troupes, and a private military jet flight. After an hour and a half long flight, they had brought the Minister and His Queen to full-intel of Loki's Gauntlet ,as well as bringing them physically to Finland.

By roughly 6 o'clock that evening, the Presidential Palace of Helsinki was alive with a meeting of World Powers, and a huge passel of journalists covering the subject, come to witness for themselves the "Coronation of Icarus". Meanwhile the 7 Masters, and the Blood Eagle thought that the meeting Gretel and Mycroft had called tonight at 8 o'clock in the sanctuary of the "Church of St. Nicholas", was still top secret.

* * *

><p>John called Greg and the "girls" (meaning Mrs. Hudson and Molly) earlier, and had told them to turn their tellys to channel 24, because tonight Sherlock was going to be on the international news.<p>

"Hello, John. I didn't even know you and Sherlock had left the country?" Molly said when she'd answered the phone.

John laughed. "Last minute flight, you know how he is. Well, anyway, it's almost Christmas. And apparently Sherlock decided to get you girls ,and Greg, World Peace for Christmas this time."

Molly smiled ,brightly. "Uhmm,...well...bit out of his budget though...rather expensive gift that, oh!, uhhh...not that I have anything at all against it, I mean who doesn't love World Peace?"

John laughed and looked over at Sherlock, because of his wounds ,hardly able to resist the make up team changing his appearance from "Sherlock Holmes" to "Icarus".

"Must I really wear this ridiculous contraption?" Sherlock whined to Mycroft.

"You are an agent of MI6 that actually DIED over a year ago. Unless you truly wish to live up to the title of "King in Terror" and be harassed by spiritist/ paparazzi until you leave this Earth for good, I suggest for ONCE ,brother mine, you do as I say..." Mycroft gasped, exasperated.

Sherlock had been stuck down inside an ancient suit of plate armor, that the agents had fortified as a sort of body cast for all of his injuries, as well as a stage prop. They had affixed the wings to the back of it, stuck a helmet on top of Sherlock's head, and painted his face like a character in a Japanese opera, white face make up, red lips.

"Really, does it have to be so THEATRICAL? You'd think I was going on the Barbican, not the bloody news!"

Mycroft reached a makeup sponge, and put a huge pat of powder on both of Sherlock's high-boned cheeks.

"Play the part, brother mine!"

"Here you always say that I am the DRAMATIC one..." Sherlock muttered, indignantly twitching his nose.

"You aren't going to recognize Sherlock, or me either, when you see us. We'll be wearing Renaissance armor, and have our faces painted like geishas." John chuckled.

Molly blinked on her end of the line. Swallowed, confused, not even really knowing what in blazes John was on about, but being the saint that she was , patiently hearing him out.

"Oh...uhmm...well...surprise me then."

"Think we definitely will...Ok, talk to you later ,Molly."

As they hung up, John picked up the huge lion-crested shield they were making him carry. The Major was practicing swinging a battle axe that was part of his costume.

John began to wonder how much of the news was staged . Began to wonder if the world would truly momentarily find some peace tonight?

He took one look at Sherlock and realized, that if only for a moment, if only for a breath, _his _ world had found Peace.

Sherlock was going to heal.

If there was no other purpose that Hansel's Defiance had accomplished, it had accomplished this. Sherlock had taken a journey into his own soul, and been forced to see the light that was hidden there. And he had found it, what he had been looking for, what Hansel had been looking for, what Gretel was ready to make herself a slave to a maniac anarchy system for...The hardest sought thing in the Universe, and the easiest found, the source of all Light, and Truth and Meaning. And it lives in every one of us, and it is love. Love that dares to defy the mold, to make the change. Love's holy flame consumes all fear, everytime. In the end, love would always win, no matter how Dark, or how great a Terror. John smiled.

Yes, the world was at Peace now.

* * *

><p>"Well, are you ready for this?" John asked.<p>

Sherlock drew the sword that went with his costume.

"It's a bit like Halloween or some such...I feel indescribably silly. And here I'm supposed to be the "King in Terror"."

John smiled at him, and Sherlock turned to look.

"Say it..." Sherlock practically purred, eyes flickering like two blue candle flames, trying to be menacing.

"I'm not saying anything..."

"You're laughing..."

"I'm NOT, I haven't said..."

By the time he finished that sentence he was laughing, and Sherlock was laughing too, both of them laughing so hard, they were breathless and in tears.

"Ach!, look what you made me do, and now I have to make a speech. Better hope for your sake my voice doesn't crack out there. After all, the security of civilization sort of depends on this going right..." Sherlock hissed.

"Ok, and when we get done securing civilization, what would you like for dinner?"

"You aren't taking this overly seriously are you,John?"

"Well ,see that's it. I'm done. I'm done losing you. I'm done being afraid. Go out there and tell the Devil he can do his worst. I'm ready."

"Alright...Question?"

"All ears."

"While I'm out there on camera, could you steal one of Satan's ash trays for me?"

"We've been over this ,I'm not stealing you a bloody ash tray. And you've quit smoking, doctor's orders."

Sherlock growled.

"I'm serious about the smoking, Sherlock."

"John?"

"What?"

"May I suggest a box of nicotine patches for my Christmas?"

Just then it was time for him to go, and make peace for the world.

John laughed, clapping him on the back, making the faux wings shake. The bright lights of cameras and action made Sherlock squint, and stumble. He felt dizzy, and suddenly, he was faced with his darkest fear; standing on the roof of St. Bart's again, failing John again...

But then he felt John's hand on his shoulder again, in a place that was more cloth than armor.

They were in the place of St. Nicholas now. It was almost Christmas, and there would be peace on earth.

Everything was well. John was here beside him.

It wasn't like last time, it would never be that way again. It was time to start again. A new life. An actual _life _, and not just existing.

There was danger on every side. Very soon the 7 Masters, and the Eagle would come, with their liquid Armageddon in tow, sworn to Icarus, but not in any sort of respect. They could release it here and now, unless Sherlock played his part very well. This would be no simple task.

He wasn't afraid. He would never be afraid again.

John had fallen in stride with him now, and for once, all was well...


	18. Chapter The Last

**Chapter The Last~**

The lights were set in the angel's seats, the cameras hidden like the eyes of God, as the World Powers and the journalists, took their hiding places, to witness a coming together of the tides of Darkness.

The Seven Masters came and stood in plain view of he camera mounted over the bishop's seat, having no idea that it was there.

The Blood Eagle came and stood before them.

"Long live the King! Icarus, show yourself! Take your place in glory." he shouted, and it echoed off St. Nicholas' walls.

There was a sound of dark laughter, and even though the setting of this scene was so old-movie ridiculous, still every person watching was suddenly filled with a dread they couldn't explain.

And then he stepped out, and unless you knew him well, there wasn't even a shadow left in the disguise to tell you that you were looking at Sherlock Holmes.

He had plate armor of a bright silver on his legs and arms , like they wore in the days of King James. Beneath that was a coat of chain mail that was gilded in a fine white gold, and shone like snake-skin in the dark. Beneath that was a shirt of deep burgundy ,like it had been dyed that color with blood, and his pants were even deeper shade of purple-black, barely visible beneath the "dragon scales".

But for the breastplate he was wearing a bronze piece of Hellenistic armor, an article like something pulled right out of time, from the days that Troy fell, when Achilles breathed. And he had on a high bronze helmet , like a prince of ancient Greece might have worn, that swept back almost like wings or horns over his face, revealing his face painted white ,save where his lips were painted red like a demon that had stained himself with blood. Two huge black wings ,like a man-sized raven, or a vampire that struck terror into Count Dracula, were melted into the back of his armor, and glowered a deep purple in the dim lights of the cathedral.

Here was Icarus, back from hell, still smoldering from the light of the sun that scorched him.

On his right and and his left appeared two men, one small, with little strands of blonde escaping his more closed-face bronze helmet, and a taller one with a more English style steel helmet, that was closed completely, and this one carried a huge black battle-axe, a weapon the envy of Lucifer.

The command need not be given. The eight lords of Loki's Gauntlet sank to their knees.

Dark laughter again rolled through every crevice of this ancient building.

"Brilliant...it was all so brilliant though...wasn't it?" said Icarus in a low-menacing voice. The camera crew got it on loud speaker though, so everybody watching could here it without mistake.

" All of this. A kingdom you could simply create, a kingdom without a throne or crown, a war without blood, an Armageddon without the faintest trace of smoke..." he laughed darkly, and shook his head.

"A kingdom that I inherited without even trying...A brilliant but ultimately vain creation that now you must surrender to me..."

The Seven Lords spoke between themselves, and then they said.

"There is a ceremony to the surrender of our precious anointing oil..." they replied, and held up a cylinder with the diameter of a small tree.

"You will need to solve the riddle of the Recipe."

Icarus threw back his head and laughed, a blood curdling laugh. John swallowed, watching him, amazed that this was the same man he had lived with on Baker Street, what seemed like long ago...

"A riddle, a ritual, recite for us a prayer?! Pay penance in the Circles of Dante, tell us the beads?! Fools, oh poor fools. It's too easy, in fact it's child's play! If this were a Game I'd say it would be set on a pre-elementary level. If this is religion then it has become quite out-dated, and your spirits have evaporated ,and hardened like freezing tree sap! Did I come BACK from my grave for THIS?! BORING! WHY DIDN'T YOU LEAVE ME WHERE I WAS LYING? I COULD HAVE SLEPT TILL THE END OF TIME!"

The walls were quaking now, as if an unseen audience was made guilty with his voice.

"IN THE END IT IS ALL MEANINGLESS! I CAN SEE IT BY EVERY DETAIL OF YOUR ATTIRE, BY YOUR MANNERISMS, FACIAL EXPRESSIONS, THE SMELL OF YOUR AFTER-SHAVE! IT'S ALL AS CLEAR AS WINE GLASSES TO ME, AND THAT'S NO GOOD FOR A WORLD OF DECEPTION ,NOW IS IT?!"

So loudly he admonished them, that they all crawled a step backwards, but now he was clutching his head with both hands, spinning about animatedly, like he would have done in his own living room, but he wasn't entirely mindful of his wings. They swept around in circles, and blew over little candles that the camera-crew had lit for effects, and suddenly, somehow they were slowly lit on fire, till he stood still, ablaze, and so slowly burning, and so captured in this moment, that nobody could speak to warn him of any danger.

"You are all grandsons of men that were private researchers for the Third Reich. Your Kingdom of Terror is no more unique or rigid or terrifying than Hitler before you. Than the Vikings before that. Everything from the ring on your right hand, to the name of your order, to the World War 1 German officer's sword on his left hip, but adjusted wrongly for draw, because you are actually left-handed and have a concealed Springfield in a holster on your right hip, that you mean to threaten my assistant with in some sort of last bargain in the next few minutes-! All of it points to the magnitude of your vanity, to the sheer epic failure you have made!

In the end, you have only proven to me something that I have puzzled over, and went to my Grave puzzling. The Vanity of Man, and all his attempts at Glory! But there is only one glory in the lives of men...to find that which he was created to do, and to do that with his might! One young man's defiance of your system gave me the answer to all my riddles, and the purpose of my Work. I am born to pursue after justice like the Hounds of Hell. I am born to be the Guardian of all those that are not wise enough to see through your lies. The only strength you have is visual, the appearance of evil can bring any man to his knees. You're kneeling before me, because I have been persuaded to wear this frankly RIDICULOUS costume, and because I have a rather accomplished vocabulary. For that reason you were afraid...and if you mean to steer the world on something so superficial as your five senses, you will lose your throne with the same ease that you slipped off your wedding band for so many years, Mr. Yeats!"

Now that Icarus had called out the man as being a part of all the crimes that left his family in years of havoc , Anders Yeats shrank back into what shadow remained before the wings, that were now full blazing.

"You never loved your wife, you never loved your Mistress, you let them destroy each other, and move your children about like chess pieces in their petty little murder game! You sat back like some greedy little leprechaun and watched the system burn around you. All of the blame for all of this rests on you. Which is why you are going to make it right! Which is why YOU are going to hand me the cylinder, and surrender yourself to the authority of the myriad military police officers that are nested within the shadows of this building out of your plain sight. You will do it if you have any soul at all, for the sake of the children you practically sacrificed for some vain-glorious rubbish as this Kingdom That Never Came! You will do it, or ...you will have to deal with me. If not here...then I will find you Here After. And I should make note of the fact that, I am better acquainted with the geography of that Place, than you are."

* * *

><p>And so it ended just as suddenly as it had begun. They stood in front of the Haven, a few hours later, dressed in their regular clothes, the makeup washed off, and with the end of this case, more troubling Hallow's Eve dream than actual compelling crimes, so too ended a great period of Grey in their lives.<p>

Hansel thanked Sherlock repeatedly, and swore by every name he knew that his father was an evil man, and he would not be like him.

Sherlock stood there, in abject silence, until it was all over. Until the kings and queens passed by him, and it was all finished and forgotten, and Mycroft was discussing dinner plans and a flight home tomorrow.

He lifted his eyes, and lo and behold there was John coming to him from across the evening snow, a kind smile the mirror of his very heart on his face.

"Well, that was an ...interesting...case, wasn't it?"

"Indeed, it was..."

"And it's over now..."

"Indeed, it is..."

"So, what's next?"

Sherlock looked to the sky, even as the sun crowned St. Nicholas with a halo of gold, and blue, and red, and lavender lights.

"Now...we start over. Now...now I think, it's time to live..."

**~The End (or is it?)**


End file.
